


hot oil spit

by faorism



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Backstory, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Child Neglect, Disorderly Eating, Fic Not As Dark As Tags Make It Seem, Gen, Gritty Realism Meets Bildungsroman Afterschool Special, Growing Up, Living That Working Class Life, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2018-09-18 12:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 32,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9385004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: He was always a wuss, but now he’s a wuss with a gun and a twisting dragon that his soulmark has burned haunting, frightening,impossibleinto his hand and wrist.





	1. the devil's got a wicked sense of humor

**Author's Note:**

> as a heads up: in regards to the "period-typical racism" noted in the tags, i use it (somewhat sardonically*) to recognize the both outright (micro)aggressions i will include throughout this fic, and also my fic's structural framework in which i am exploring a latino character's relationship with his latinidad (tenuous though it may be) in a future where my cynic ass aint seeing everything as rosy posy nickle and dime. as a person of color, i get pretty nervous seeing that tag myself, so like, seriously. if you are a person of color for whom not knowing what's going to be included might be a barrier for reading my fic, please feel free to reach out and i can lay out what's coming.
> 
> *for a more thorough explanation of my feelings regarding this tag, i have written about it [in full on my tumblr here](http://faorism.tumblr.com/post/158752665162).

Jesse is fifteen and staring down a row of empty cans that stand in legacy of his dinners from the last week: working backwards, corn, off brand Spaghetti-O's, nothing for Wednesday, baked beans, baked beans, nothing again Sunday, chicken noodle soup, and corn again. If he could be bothered to make stand the wonder bread bag that held the loaf he rationed out as toast, he would've for the extra target.  
  
He hadn't bothered to wash the tins out when he was cooking them, so now that he's set them up on the long empty pig enclosure fence, the older ones are already attracting flies with their crust. Gross, but it don't matter none. Not when they're about to be blown to smithereens.  
  
Jesse knows his good for nothing pa's out, and it's not like the neighbors can hear from across their underfarmed, underwatered, underterraformed plot; still, he takes one good look around for witnesses before he positions himself, stance wide and hands curling at his sides. His thumb edges against the texture of leather, and Jesse's heart jumps with the reality of the holster latched across his waist.  
  
He's barely breathing as he drags his thumb upward until he feels the press of metal. It burns him something sweet in the pit of his belly. Jesse has spent endless hours in sims—those at the arcade and those they started mandating by the state during the war that they never bothered to cancel. With a real gun and with real bullets, he feels ten feet tall and like he's all those fellows whose spaghetti westerns he's streamed endless hours of once he figured the police station's unsecured wifi reached the nearby square's seating area. But however proud his teachers accuse him to be when he backtalks them something petty, Jesse ain't no fool. He's Wayne, he's Eastwood, he's Jesse fucking McCree, but he can't trust himself for quick showy work, a point that sours the experience somewhat. Still, he lets himself pull the gun out nice and dramatic like.  
  
Careful with the safety, he cherishes the weight in his hand as he swings the revolver in an arc. He positions it like how the sims taught him, pride keeping his hand steady. The metal glints in the too hot for March March sun.  
  
Based on what he's read up on, the model is decent for Walmart's standards but it's easily three decades old and not in the best shape, and it don't got the kick or style he wants. But this is practice, this is to learn, so that one day when he's got enough and he's old enough he knows exactly what he wants. He already knew going into this that anything that belonged to his pa wasn't gonna be something that he'll ever be satisfied with anyway.  
  
Jesse looks up at the corn can from last night. He can taste the sweet kernels still and how they fell down his throat acidic and wasted with how fucking goddamn tired he is of their feel on his tongue. He's tired of corn. He's tired of processed tomato sauce and brine broth and bland, hollow wonder bread. He's tired, but he has a gun now.  
  
A loaded gun, ready to raze the world destroyed with the flick of a finger.  
  
He stares at the can, and he focuses. Focuses like he does in class even when he's antsy for lunch. Focuses like he never has when his pa catches him up to no good. Focuses like he never imagined anyone could. Focuses like fire like anger like the heat stinging up and through his body.  
  
In between breaths a crack rings in his ears and the can disappears.  
  
Jesse, at first, honestly doesn't know what happened. But then he smells the burst of metal in the air, and he realizes it was him. He doesn't remember touching the safety or aiming or taking the shot.  
  
But he did it. He did it.  
  
Jesse smiles wide and with every tooth showing. He's electric and he's fifteen and right now he's learning how desire sets into him, his smiling mouth, and the clenching muscles of his gun arm.  
  
The soup can doesn't last a minute longer.  
  
He cocks the gun for the nights he went half hungry with only mayo toast to hold him over.  
  
But the beans? the Spaghetti-O's? Gone.  
  
Jesse ain't no wuss, but there's tears in his eyes and his arm shakes with the effort to keep it steady.  
  
No. He lets himself be a wuss. He lets himself borrow power from an object because his growth spurt has left him awkward with newly stretched legs and arms. He lets himself feel. He is burning, overwhelmed, like the flush of bodies smashed together in a too small car with no AC—but pleasant. And he lets in the still blurred thoughts of bodies like and unlike his own that the onset of puberty whispers into his ear at night. He's burning with a strength and hope he wants to hold between clenched teeth. He's a wuss, but a wuss with a gun.  
  
He ain't ready for the last can. He don't want it to end, but he's only got so many bullets. He necked Nasty Nancy Ellen to get the handful she snuck off with special for him. He don't know how long that well'll keep running wet before her manager figures what's up.  
  
It'll be worth it for this, he knows to his bones.  
  
He burns as he prepares for the last draw. No one ever said it would be like this. They mentioned adrenaline sure, but this feels like… fire. Like the screeching pain of a broken bone, like asphalt burns, like salt-covered ice held in his palm as a dare. Like…  
  
Wait.  
  
Jesse thumbs the safety. He wonders if he should shoot first, but curiosity snaps at him urgent and desperate. He finally looks away from the pig pen and down at his right hand.  
  
The gun looks natural there, perfect even with the lousy model. The echo of what could be is all that matters... well, is something that matters a great good deal.  
  
Nah, what really matters is what drops from the curve of the pistol to the skin just below, at his wrist. Billowing red lines crease his skin there, growing large even though they don't make much sense yet. Jesse stares and stares and refuses to yet put the gun down, even as the strange design crawls up the heel of his hand into his palm. In either seconds or hours, the branding red connects lines to lines in little loops.  
  
Jesse, transfixed though he is, finds that a growing fear trembles his knees. This... this here is too ornate for a signature.  
  
The pulse of longing does not go away even with the new presence of horror. So he stares anyway. He stares until the lines stop and, with a final flare of temperature that sucks out all the warmth in his limbs, the red winks black then red then black, as it will always remain.  
  
Jesse cannot be seeing what he's seeing.  
  
That cannot be...  
  
He's worked retail and seen flightly signatures of the older folks who insist on paying with debit cards. Curly, fanciful things they got, that fill space just because no one thought to tell a whole generation how much of an asshole thing it was to burden your partnersoul with hiding it. Even way out in the boondocks of fuck piss nowhere Hartford, Jesse's heard whispers about the haunting yet beautiful circuit designs omnics burn onto their human partnersouls. This, though...  
  
Stupidly, Jesse glances away from the horror on his wrist and to the corn can. He knows already, somehow, that he's going to miss but he still lifts the gun, takes off the safety, and shoots wild. He misses.  
  
He welps something ugly and he's glad no one is around to see the tears blossom in huge bolts down his face.  
  
He’s a wuss, as he knows and as his pa knows. He was always a wuss, but now he's a wuss with a gun and a twisting dragon that his soulmark has burned haunting, frightening, _impossible_ into his hand and wrist.  
  
...Jesus Christ.  
  
Jesse. Is. Fucked.

 


	2. another mouth to feed — part i

Jesse gives himself an hour to flip his shit before he returns the gun to its stash, hides the bullet-ridden cans, and considers his options while avoiding even the briefest glance at the source of his offense.  
  
It's a quick decision to bike to Graham's.  
  
He rides like a madman, Jesse knows, hitting every pothole and dirt patch with a speed that draws attention from the few people he passes. Keen eyes would observe the ridiculously yellow dishwashing glove he's got on his right hand. No one calls out for him, although he might be too distracted to hear them right and proper. He's sure they'll be hounding one another for what Blanquito's boy was off rushing to; gossip lives deep down in their guts in these parts. The anxiety for a tidbit of new news will draw them all in for a probing meal of doublespeak and two fingers of something strong.  
  
Even as sweat-salt cakes his pores from the effort, Jesse feels an empty chill that rattles him as he pushes himself faster with every lot he passes. They say marking's a bitch, but the memory of the heat of it has left him aching and testy. He near tosses himself off the bike in agitation when he reaches Graham's general store. The handles make a loud angry sound as it clips an icebox before falling over.  
  
It's Maggie behind the counter, so she doesn't pay him any mind when Jesse stalks in and beelines to the small equipment section near the beer.  
  
It's almost obscene as his eyes skip over hammers and windshield wiper fluid to check the small rack of gloves, quick release wristbands, and armor paste. It shouldn't be such a shock, of course: out here people still work with their hands. No matter how advanced the technology gets, no matter how much they try to shove off on bots, there's always gonna be towns like Hartford and folks like Hartford's folks, where most local vocations call on their workers to handle the kind of intricate machinery that ain't no joke. Jesse's seen visiting paperpushers and cybercruisers astounded by the trickery laborers have to get up to to make sure no one's injured by a tug of fabric caught in a gear.  
  
Even with all the design and care in the world, though, accidents happen. Jesse has accompanied his pa to a wristband replacement run a dozen times over as far back as he can remember.  
  
It should be about practicality. But as Jesse rejects the majority of the selection because they won't even conceal half his mark (let alone all of it), he realizes there's more to the moment. Because he's more. His mark's more.  
  
Knowing the two cameras in Graham's point to the register and the back room, Jesse risks sliding the now-gross glove down enough to get a second look at the bizarre, so bizarre ink set blazen into his right hand.  
  
Even with his head cleared of the initial shock, his first impression is still his best impression. It's a nasty thing, alright. The dragon's head rests just beyond his wrist, past where a name ought to be. Head tilted and jaw open wide to reveal a line of sharp teeth, the dragon looks ready to either dine on Jesse's forearm or defend himself (Jesse knows he's a he, even if he's sure how or why) from curious fingers. The dragon's claws reach out to his sides to clutch onto Jesse's arm, as if Jesse would try to shake him off with will alone. Behind the head, his body blossoms in a coil of finely detailed scales and fins. He straightens once he passes the palm to a tapered off black tail ending at Jesse's index finger's first knuckle.  
  
Genre lover as he is, Jesse is a man who knows his tropes. The best nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and even westerns ground themselves in mark admoninations, fated marks, marks that shift during full moons, marks that appear after true love's first kiss, and other general weirdness. Jesse's joins those ranks, but he can't bring himself to call himself cursed.  
  
The dragon... he is honestly too beautiful for Jesse to hate him. Jesse'll admit at least that to himself.  
  
Engrossed, he follows the coil with his left hand. His skin tingles along the trace of his touch wonderfully, but he startles out of feeling himself up when Maggie yells, "What you doing back there, kid?"  
  
Right. He's in public.  
  
"Setting up the next Overwatch!" Jesse eyes the rack again as he speaks. "Care to join me? I'll make you my sarge."  
  
Maggie laughs just as Jesse figures there's only one real choice: a pair of skintech gloves. Lightweight, full cover, black, with breathable fabric and just the right amount of seams and padding to make the pair look tough instead of decorative. It's three times more expensive than he wants to even think about, but nothing else works.  
  
The gloves feel like heaven, though, after he offers up his credit chip to Maggie, ignores her snarks about the glove he's wearing now, and pulls them on in an empty parking lot a few minutes ride away. He had to take an IOU for most of the cost but Graham's knows he's good for it and fucking damn it was worth it. He flexes his hands, hearing the stretch of fabric and letting pride swell up solid in his gut. He understands that there ain't no direct correlation but he feels grown and he feels like an adult and he feels like there's someone out there with his name on their wrist. Someone who might have a funny way to address themself—himself (Jesse knows; he just knows)—but someone's out there just for him all the same.  
  
He's out there and Jesse, despite knowing there will be plenty of mayo toast days ahead of him, smiles without an edge of worry. This here's his new normal, and he's ready for it.

 


	3. another mouth to feed — part ii

Jesse receives a solid four days of oohs, aahs, and blatant stares at school after he shows up with the skintech gloves, which he never takes off except when he's home alone. He never thought he'd be modest, hiding away his mark for only him to see, but he knows somehow that the dragon would freak people out in a bad, bad way; why push his luck? The attention he receives despite and because of the gloves embarrasses him, but soon gossip moves from poor Jesse, Blanquito's son, whose partnersoul didn't have the patience to write straight across his wrist (an assumption he allows and encourages) to poor Jorge the fireman three months from retirement, who crashed his car on the way to work when the marking distracted him behind the wheel. People accept Jesse's weirdness and nothing much changes.  
  
Well, nothing except Jorge has a cast and Jesse's projectile scores drop thanks to the gloves—something that's been grating him day in and day out. The first time he jumps into a sim at school after being marked, his bullseye shooting accuracy halves from his six-month average, with only another half of the rest still hitting anywhere close to critical.  
  
His buddy Ortega is there after the first sim to witness his grim expression, and she tries to cheer him up by reminding him that's still a better score than two-thirds of their class, but to Jesse it's not good enough.  
  
Jesse knows, however, this is just a bump in the road.  
  
He will get used to the gloves and the awkward pull of them on the wedge of his knuckles.  
  
He'll be good again.  
  
He just needs more practice.  
  
He'll find time for an extra shift somewhere and he'll rent sim time and he'll pay his dues and he'll be the best once again. It sucks to suck but he has an exit plan so his sudden loss of skills doesn't become longterm. Goal burning him deep and long, Jesse almost forgets to complain when he picks up an extra night at his diner gig to cover his skyrocketing costs. Having another guaranteed dinner doesn't hurt either.  
  
Everything feels okay by Jesse so it doesn't occur to him how not normal his normal actually is until a month out.  
  
See, Jesse is not bad at school. He does decent, sometimes even well, though he never aims to be #1 because it ain't worth the effort. Not when he can give up the hours studying needed for an A to ride home with a C/C+ average and a paycheck from any one of his odd jobs. So he ain't stupid, no matter how much he plays the bad boy with attitude sitting at the back of the classroom, but lord almighty cybernetics is kicking his ass. No matter how much he rereads his exhaustive notes, no matter how many hours he pours into online guides and robots for dummies vids, he can't wrap his brain around the basic math of what gets circuit boards to work, let alone the complicated intelligence matrixes that landed them in the mess they're now calling the Crisis.  
  
He can't remember it being this hard. Maybe they beefed the curriculum up now that the robots went from raining hail marys at all the world's major cities to arranging kumbaya circles. Which is all well and good and all in theory, but Jesse's here sweating steel with the effort to understand the hell Mx Cardona is going on about.  
  
He leans back and tries again to follow the formula xe has been working on for the last twenty minutes. Jesse knows it describes the neurojump capacity between three or more omnics in a single server, but with every second it looks more like squiggly lines and numbers jumbled together without no reason in sight.  
  
At least he's not the only one lost, judging by the increasingly troubled sounds coming from his neighbor.  
  
It doesn't comfort Jesse much since Tommy has a slab of meat for a head. Jesse has been in project teams with him over the years so Jesse knows Tommy can pick stuff up if he applies himself; Tommy just chooses not to. Like as a kid he heard a century's worth of stereotypes about giant blond blue-eyed football captains dating bubblegum-popping head cheerleaders and decided _yes, that's it. That's the clusterfuck of white boy testosterone I aspire to be one day._  
  
But an ally is an ally, so Jesse looks to Tommy to see if they can acknowledge how equally lost they are.  
  
Tommy isn't even looking at the board anymore, which is usually a fair avoidance strategy except a green pallor flushes ugly across Tommy's square jaw and brick nose. His body curls in on itself, pretzeling that tremendous form into the smallest shape possible.  
  
Jesse's seen him confused and this ain't that. Tommy looks _sick_.  
  
"Alright there, buddy?" Jesse whispers low enough to hopefully not catch the teach's attention. When xe continues without dropping a beat, Jesse figures he succeeded.  
  
Tommy jumps back in his desk and the movement reveals a pulsing red and black at his wrist. Jesse can't help but let his eyes drop to it. Rude and base and probably the worst thing he's done in a while—but he stares gaping at the vulnerability of seeing another person's soul pulse against the boundaries of its existence.  
  
Two circles, side by side on Tommy's wide wrist, settle into black. He cannot discern the details, but Jesse recognizes the intricacy of it from when he burst open a dead laptop to see what was inside.  
  
If Jesse ever thought his mark was omnic in nature (which he sometimes wondered), Tommy's marks prove him dead wrong.  
  
"It's real, ain't it?" Tommy's voice trembles next to Jesse and fuck, he sounds an inch from crying.  
  
Jesse ain't heartless, and no matter how much Tommy deserves to be taken down a peg, this ain't the peg that needs fixing.  
  
"Mx Cardona!" Jesse yells before he knows the end of the sentence. Tommy freezes up as the class turns to them and in an instant he draws his wrist to his chest. "Tommy's… gonna throw up!"  
  
Jesse doesn't wait to get permission before jumping to his feet and dragging Tommy up and out of his desk. Tommy gets the message and covers his mouth (although he might actually be a minute from spewing chunks). "Be right back!" Jesse calls as he pushes Tommy out the classroom's back door.  
  
Working on autopilot, Jesse guides them through a few hallways to the parking lot exit. The sky streaks with clouds that probably won't yield an inch of rain for Hartford, and it's warm enough that Jesse doesn't miss the thin jacket he's left at his desk.  
  
They don't talk as Jesse kicks a stop into the door so they aren't locked out. Jesse remains silent as Tommy, breathing fresh air, starts to pant and pace and scratch at his wrist. He looks ready to punch something, but perhaps even at his most upset, Tommy pauses over the risk to his hand in a 1-v-1 with a brick wall.  
  
Jesse waits a few minutes before reaching into his jeans for a cigarette. He isn't the biggest smoker, but tobacco is a killer appetite suppressant and always gives him something to do with his hands when people get too nosy with his gloves.  
  
Lighting up triggers something for Tommy, because he finally stops to look at Jesse. He sneers, and his whole expression sours with aggression.  
  
"They'll kill you, you know."  
  
Jesse didn't realize he would be so offended by smoking, but like hell is he going to put it out.  
  
Jesse shrugs. "At least I look cool doing it." The first draw scraps at the back of his throat.  
  
"They'll kill you," Tommy repeats. "Omnics."  
  
Oh, they're talking about it. Okay. "The war's over, Tommy."  
  
Tommy sneers something mean. "For now."  
  
"Even if they do come back to fight, they ain't coming for us here in Hartford."  
  
"Not now. But they will. You can't make them happy, not really. Not when they got the power to do the shit they pulled in Brazil." Tommy laughs but it sounds like the kind of awful and cruel that Jesse likes to keep clear of. "You can't be that stupid, McCree. They after us. As a species. When they start fighting again, y'think they'll sit pretty when they burned down every New York and Tokyo? They'll move on because that's what they do. They don't know how to stop because they don't got brains. They got automatic processes and they're so empty that when one went and glitched up so bad it went against protocol, they all jumped on. We all gonna die because someone probably mixed up a 5 for a S somewhere and they can kill us now. They'll kill us all."  
  
"Maybe wave that arm around and they'll spare you," Jesse says trying to break the dire mood with a joke, but Tommy's not having any of it.  
  
"I'd rather die taking down as many as I can than surrender to a tin can."  
  
Tommy's serious. His dad and older brothers were at the front lines until the truce, and his sister was grounded from defending Houston after sustaining an injury too extensive for combative prosthetics to be viable.  
  
Humanity needed people like Tommy and his family during the Crisis, who believed the omnics can be beat, and less people like Jesse, who will steadfastly ignore everything except scavenging his next meal and improving his shooting. He doesn't even imagine omnics as targets, like a lot of the other kids do, and maybe that's a failure on Jesse.  
  
Still, Tommy's speech sickens him.  
  
"So you gonna to kill them all?"  
  
"Of course!"  
  
Jesse's right hand clenches into a fist. His heartbeat pounds in his palm, and Jesse imagines the dragon's coil visibly moving with every pulse. "You sure about that, big boy? How about if one day, you got your big gun and a bot at your feet, somehow it sees your mark and realizes that's its designation. An execution’s turned into a reunion, and you got your partnersoul at your goddamn whims. Will you take the shot?"  
  
Tommy's gone green again, and Jesse may match.  
  
Partnersouls aren't always romantic, and they don't always work out quite right. Jesse's own parents are proof of that; no doubt if his mamá lived any longer divorce woulda been in the horizon for his folks.  
  
Wartime especially messes people up in ways that only vets and civilian survivors comprehend. Soulmarks, after all, are not about who you're destined to bone: it's just about the person or people who will leave the biggest, you know, mark on your life. Your significant other. For most people it's a guide to find your most compatible bedmate, and Jesse will be the first to admit he's subscribed to the hope his mark pairs with a dick to one day fuck. But marks can be for anyone important, and your first kill or your murderer certainly can count under that SO qualification.  
  
But to go in guns ablazing when you know parts of you can be your next kill... that's... that's...  
  
"I got a fucked up mark too," Jesse confesses because more than anything he just needs to stop thinking about partnersouls murdering partnersouls.  
  
Even if he invoked it to fend off Tommy's revulsion, Jesse suddenly isn't the only one who knows something is weird about him. He feels lighter, somehow, with the rush of someone else—anyone else—knowing his secret.  
  
"You trying to compare a crooked mark to this?" Tommy—not in on Jesse's moment of peace—angrily raises his wrist again and god, he needs to stop waving that around.  
  
"No, asshole. It's... not words, too. Not like yours, but not words either." Jesse lets Tommy settle into that fact. When he seems properly taken aback, Jesse continues. "Listen, I researched it, and it's a big hocking myth that people all got signatures, and the ones who got something else are freaks. Language came from the marks, not the other way round. What you think went on when only the frou frou elite and scribes and shit knew how to read? Everybody knows blind at marking folks’ marks are a little different, but there's still folks whose brains can't process writing, and folks who care more about oral history, and people who game the system by signing shit with a symbol instead of a name, you know? They just got funky patterns but they belong to normal, boring Jacks and Jills and what have you, and somehow people always knew which was theirs. The Hollywood fat cats like to show symbols as weird and rare, but it's not. It's possible. Anything is possible."  
  
Hope rages on Tommy's face for a moment before Tommy turns the parking lot, guarding his expression. Even his tone communicates nothing when he asks, "Do you think it's possible for you? Being normal?" Tommy doesn't need to add on _or possible for me_ for Jesse to hear it.  
  
"I…"  
  
The answer Jesse never has allowed himself to admit to comes immediately, and Jesse hates Tommy for not letting things settle. Despises him for it.  
  
No.  
  
The answer's no.  
  
Weeks of curious but unhurried research gave Jesse a lot of possibilities that he chose not to trouble himself with too deeply. It was good enough to know difference existed out there; Jesse didn't have to see himself within the documented cases to feel secure.  
  
Yet, there was also subtle doubt troubling his ease.  
  
No one with symbols described theirs as complicated as his except for one group: those fated to omnics. Omnic marks started appearing decades ago in a trickle that has exploded exponentially in the past few years. No one—not in the media, not in the government, not even in the privacy of kitchens—wanted to talk about what it meant that people were partnered with the things forced into 24/7 factory labor and then no one wanted to talk about how the marks still came even as the omnics wrestled with humans for global supremacy. Now, the convo can happen but when you ain't talk about something for so long it's hard to jump start the talk.  
  
What if Jesse's dragon foretells yet another threat looming in the distant future? What if his mark holds the promises of another war, another reason to die?  
  
"Right," Tommy says, taking Jesse's silence for all that it was.  
  
Tommy nods, curt, a non sequitur of an action. "With a parent's permission, a minor can join the JROTC late. They're desperate enough, and I've always been big." He inhales and exhales deeply twice, and he straightens up his back to stand tall and proud. "I can be in their programs by this time next week. No point in an education if no one's alive to appreciate that you know your ABCs."  
  
It's the worst thing Jesse has ever had the displeasure to hear in his entire life.  
  
To that, Jesse can only respond, "Imma finish this"—he waves his cigarette, which is mostly unsmoked ash at this point—"but you should head to the nurse. They got free wristbands."  
  
"Will do."  
  
Neither says goodbye as Tommy walks back into school.  
  
The period must almost be over. Jesse will need to fetch his stuff soon and probably visit Mx Cardona's office so xe can catch him up. For now, though, Jesse shakes off his cigarette and takes another drag. The smoke burns humid and disgusting as it reaches his lungs.

 


	4. another mouth to feed — part iii

Tommy was right about one thing: humanity's desperation to train the fit, strong, and willing. From what Jesse hears, they want to fit him into a JROTC class an hour from Las Vegas. Tommy rushes the application and suddenly he's got three days to say bye to his fam, friends, and all of Hartford.  
  
There's a farewell bash.  
  
Jesse's invited, of course, through the email blast facilitated by the PTA. Seeing the cheery RSVP button alone unnerves him; he doesn't want to learn what being in the midst of that celebration would be like.  
  
On the Friday when all his friends and classmates are across town toasting Hartford's beloved football star, Jesse stands at his kitchen counter slicing potatoes into tiny cubes.  
  
It's the last of the prep for his chiles rellenos, according to the recipe on his display. He wasn't sure of the name of them until digging through a search for "authentic Mexican stuffed peppers" yielded a translation. The most popular result offered a list of vaguely familiar ingredients, close enough to what he recalled of his mamá's chiles as far as Jesse was concerned.  
  
He peeks at the bright tablet screen to check his progress. The garlic and carrots are chopped, tomato base pureed, peas uncanned, and ground beef defrosted and spiced.  
  
Once the oil pops on the stove, Jesse guesses this is as good a time as ever to start cooking the meat. He tips the ingredients into the pan one by one, pausing only for the meat to brown before adding the potatoes. Jesse luxuriates over pushing the beef-veggie picadillo mix around with a spatula.  
  
That is what this is, after all: a luxury. For school lunch and the worker meals offered by the diner, he always picks the meat option because it's rare for him to indulge on anything beyond spam and canned tuna for his animal-based proteins. But ordering ain't the same as prepping it yourself. He likes tearing the plastic wrap off meat trays. He likes the sound of the fan draining fat droplets from the air. Likes choosing how rare he wants his meat.  
  
Turning over the mound to make sure everything cooked even is a treat in and of itself.  
  
Cleaned, deseeded peppers stand at the ready next to his cutting board. He had biked across town to buy the poblanos at a pricey health food store when he could only find bell peppers at the market near him, but seeing them lined up like soldiers tells him already it was worth it. They handle beautifully as Jesse fills them with the completed picadillo.  
  
He's halfway through stuffing his third pepper when he realizes he's forgotten something. The brown, orange, beige, and green in his hand is missing white, yellow.  
  
His mamá loved eggs. She said she had two hens growing up who were laying shy, and her stubborn parents didn't buy eggs to supplement the few their small brood produced. As such, when she was grown his mamá snuck eggs into anything she even remotely considered appropriate. She had the exact time an egg hardboiled trained into her body; she never tested for readiness before cracking a shell open to reveal the white prize within.  
  
Her chiles poblanos had eggs.  
  
The recipe doesn't say if the meat is supposed to cool down before you stuff the pepper, but all the cooking left is frying. That won't be enough heat to warm the picadillo if Jesse boils eggs to throw into the mix. He doesn't want to reheat the meat either. The amount he spent for all the ingredients won't be worth it if what he eats ends up lukewarm or dry. (Does he even have eggs?)  
  
He's also hungry— _now_ —so impatience wins out over nostalgia.  
  
Jesse packs the rest of the peppers, flours them, and prods at the two already in the hot pan. Bubbles ring the poblanos, and Jesse uses a fork to gently turn them over, again and again until they're done.  
  
He carefully does not think about his mother as he repeats the process for the other four peppers.

  
  
—

  
  
(He remembers her belly laugh after he tried to boil easter eggs in a toilet when he was four. It's a memory that's more story than recalling, but he isn't actually thinking about this, right?)

  
  
—

  
  
Jesse leaves the mess to clean up later and plates three peppers on one plate, three peppers on a second he leaves where he knows his pa will see—if the man even comes home tonight. He grabs a coke from the fridge bought special for the meal, and heads to the porch with his serving. He eats and does not think of broken circuits and twisted metal at Tommy's feet.  
  
He doesn't think about whatever fuckwit shit of a person (or… nonhuman?) that might spawn a honest to god fully formed  _dragon_ on his skin.  
  
He really doesn't think about lizard people or reptilian aliens or wizards or talking dinosaurs or mutated iguana-bird-eel hybrids.  
  
Doesn't think about dragon dick.  
  
Really, really doesn’t think about dragon dick.  
  
Doesn't even consider a smoking gun held hot in his hand, a scaly beast simpering in front of him as the monster pushes blood back into its… his wound. Doesn’t wonder if the uncanny horror of limbs and scales and peculiarity of such a being causes his finger to flinch on the trigger, or if there is something beyond the impulse of fear that could ever spur such hatred and violence and ruin. Doesn’t hope to know if this other (so Other from him) is good and kind and compassionate, or petty but funny and patient, or loud and welcoming but in a juvenile way, or… With the dying body at his feet, Jesse will want to know nothing that will let his partnersoul into his life any more than its slicing across his arm. A permanent scar of a moment he will want to forget. And, _fuck_ , will he even hesitate as he recognizes the horror he's done? Why is he killing in this vision, god, he doesn’t want to be a kind of man who would murder part of himself, he doesn’t want the one of the most significant people in his life to be remembered from the scrubbing of blood off his hands, ( _the red, the pulsing red and a sick crack against wood..._ ) and god, _god_ , why is Tommy such a god fucking damn idiot why—  
  
Nope, Jesse don't think about none of that for a second.

  
  
—

  
  
(The peppers, while perfectly cooked, taste off—slightly bitter—but Jesse still has to pace himself to savor the taste of his indulgence.)  
  
The sunset rakes across the sky in soft, billowing clouds.

 


	5. another mouth to feed — part iv

Jesse doesn't think of his mamá very often.    
  
It's been near six years out since her death, and the habits of life with his pa have been instilled in Jesse far stronger than what everyone projects having at least two parents is like. So Josefina Luz de la Cruz McCree (née Puerta) stands as a soft pull of a memory of gentler times rather than an ache Jesse feels on the daily. But he knows of her from the near-contradictory accounts he's gathered over the years.   
  
Josie was a firecracker. Josie was serious, somber.    
  
She was the life of the party, and boy did she party. She liked to spend her Friday nights at home to sip from her bottle of Ten High in peace.   
  
She smiled all the time. Josie's never smiling in any one of the photos taken once she got to Hartford, although Josie didn't keep enough photos from before she moved into town for Jesse to get a good judgment on whether location made a difference.   
  
She fought like cats and dogs with Blanquito, their public bouts legendary and remembered fondly by the locals. She loved her partnersoul until the day she died.   
  
She proudly bore Rafael's signature, unfettered by whispers about them girls with white sigs and fickle hearts. She was too lazy to bother covering up; remembering a wristband everyday took more effort than flipping off them fuckers who said shit knowing full well dark marks were only considered ideal 'cause they were more common on lightskinned folks.   
  
She joined the army because she hated omnics more than anyone in Hartford. She joined because the resistance needed nurses and she loved humanity so much she showed up for it when it needed her the most.   
  
She grew up with a big family, huge family, cousins and "cousins" popping in and out of her SoCal childhood home like they owned the joint. No de la Cruz or Puerta showed up to her isocare chamber when she caught a drug-resistant superbug on the frontlines, and no de la Cruz or Puerta attended her wake.   
  
Jesse Ignacio de la Cruz McCree does not feel like a de la Cruz. Maternal apellido in the wrong spot already setting him up for uneasy relations, Jesse McCree does not pray to a cross in any language. He does not speak the tongue of his mother (and father, Jesse will always note offhandedly). Jesse doesn't know the music, can't dance a lick, doesn't understand the difference between Xicano versus Chicano, never's been out of the states, and only stops on Telemundo if he's bored and flipping through every channel for something decent.    
  
That all these points ain't evidence of nothing but stereotypes, yet he  _ feels  _ like they are important only heightens his frustration.   
  
Ain't de la Cruz, but he's his mamá's son all the same. Like Josie, he wakes up at buttfuck dawn, takes his eggs over easy when applicable, and he's allergic to kiwi.    
  
And boy does he love westerns like she did.   
  
There's something about them, see, that brings him back again and again to the same tried and true characters, plotlines, settings. Something truer than true. Something that's got him currently riding pretty in the flatbed of his buddy Ortega's truck as the kid pulls into a parking spot.   
  
As soon as the car locks into a stop, before the hover has a chance to go into sleep mode, Jesse jumps out.   
  
They've cut it close. Around him, Jesse can already feel the buzz of excitement outside the theater. Folks crowd the entrance of The Light Box instead of in what Jesse knows is a too-small lobby. He eyes a few costumes in the mix, all of varying quality but representing the same character: a blue-skinned elf with chaps made of leaves, a flower cowboy hat, and a huge gun shaped from bark. The best cosplayer has a high tech staff that projects a shimmering holograph.    
  
A hard slap on his back accompanies a "Thanks for taking one for the team" from Ortega. She's flanked by a crowd of their friends, who squeezed into the cockpit two or three to a seat until the only spot left for Jesse was strapped to the back.    
  
Strangely, no one moves to the theater doors; instead, they stare between Jesse and Ortega with wide, conspiring expressions.   
  
The hand stays clasped to his shoulder, holding him in place.    
  
"Worth it," Jesse says slowly. He hooks a thumb toward the crowd. "We should—"    
  
"Hey, I think I left my credit chip in the car." Ortega doesn't even bother miming looking through her pockets. "Help me find it?"    
  
At this, their friends immediately dissipate, a wolf whistle coming from one of the bigger dudes, probably Oluwa. Jesse suffers the completely obvious set-up because there's no way outta it if everyone's involved: better to bite the bullet and take the blast to face than try to dodge the inevitable like a goddamn coward.   
  
"Gonna tell me what's got you scheming?"   
  
"Listen," Ortega says as Jesse shrugs off her hand. "This wouldn't've been necessary if you came to Tommy's party like every other person in Hartford worth something. But… okay, look, there's this dude—"   
  
"Ah hell no! Not this again." In the past two years, Jesse has been set up with every guy into guys around their age in Hartford. There ain't many, and no amount of awkward making out by the forge could make Jesse jive well with any of the queer boys his friends could find. Jesse's friends were getting desperate to find someone for him, so he had to put a hard limit of  _ Jesus I ain't dating a twenty-one year old, what the fuck  _ before they gave up their search, potential matches exhausted. Until now, apparently. "Ortega, I don't need to be set up."   
  
"You do though! Come on. Craig is Zulie's barber's brother's dealer and the dude's seventeen, built like a powerhouse, drives, is from Dallas but just moved to San Luis which is close enough to be buddies but far enough to not be breathing down your back—like, I thought this through! And he's here and wants to meet you, and everyone vetted him at Tommy's.    
  
"He's a decent guy, McCree. You’ll have fun, even if it's for nothing serious. And… bro."    
  
Ortega quiets. Picks at the hem of her jersey. "You've been all mopey since you got your mark."—"I don't wanna talk about this…"—"Then just listen. Everyone but you has our marks matched if it came in. You ain't even let me see it even though I showed you mine when Zulie's sig came in, and you won't talk about it with Dizzy or Lyn or Santi or anyone. It can't be an issue with polyam because Oluwa got three marks and we know you're cool with it. So I don't know what you got, but it can't be what you wanted if you're so hush-hush about it you'll wear those nasty gloves every goddamn day. So I'm thinking that even if you don't know your partner yet, or don't want them, at least you can have some fun getting a lil something-something on the side. You've never been a priss about keeping saintly 'til reunion. Modest, apparently," she says, pointedly looking at his gloves, "but not a priss."   
  
The noise behind Jesse has dropped significantly. The crowd must be filing in, and he's desperate to join them since this movie's the only new western coming out this year, which is the only reason he could overlook the mind-numbing quirky cross-genre, limited release indie animation aesthetic that makes him itchy but wooed the rest of his friends into coming along.    
  
He bought the ticket and put in for charge for the flatbed, in the end, and he don't wanna miss a second; Ortega is bastard enough, however, to know that and plan to drag this as long as possible until Jesse agrees to this blind date.    
  
How do you tell your best friend you ain't modest; ya just worried you might be destined to slip a lizard a wet one?    
  
The answer is: you don't.   
  
"Okay, buddy. Fine."   
  
Ortega hollers, punching her fist like she won a prize for outsourcing queer boys from other towns when the pickings' been slim. "You ain't gonna regret this!"

 

—

 

In one of the last holos Josefina Luz de la Cruz McCree (née Puerta) left for her son, she's sitting up in her isocare chamber and breathing hard. She's shaking, but she's still got most of her bearings judging by how her eyes stare straight into the camera and her sentences still have a start, middle, end. Mid-rant about getting his diploma (even a GED! something!), she stops, chews her words, and offers: "If your SO's anything like your papá, niñito, ya'll know the moment you make eyes and you better run your ass the other direction. Fall in love hard and often and early, so even if you're doomed with rotten luck you know enough to at least pray for a better life."    
  
And because lord help him if Josie made it easy for Jesse, two holos later, she's flat on her bed and breathing harder. The audio's fucked up by the ventilator but Jesse always holds the holo close and through the static he can just make out: "Being with Rafa… worth it, so worth… Gave me you. Loved me even as he gave me hell. Don't matter if it's your SO… or even if it is… Especially if it is. Always give… a chance give a chance…"    
  
When Craig approaches him in The Light Box lobby with a bag of popcorn ready, Jesse doesn't note his white as milk skin with nearing third-degree burns on his nose, shoulders, forearms, and neck. Doesn't note the thin eyebrows, or the bared unmarked wrists, the cute-silly ears that stick out like barn doors, the blue-green eyes, or the snug tee popping hem threads over thick arms.   
  
All he's got eyes for is the tacky, red tattoo sleeve running up Craig's right arm. The inked dragon wields a machine gun, and streaming down the length of its body are flames and an American flag.    
  
It ain't his dragon. Jesse knows in the way you just know things about your partner. Craig ain't his SO, but Jesse hears his mother's messages ringing in his ears as he licks his lips. Feels his heartbeat pounding hard and fast in his chest.   
  
And Ortega's wrong.    
  
Jesse will regret this moment in five months, in three years, in ten, in twenty, in thirty. He'll forget about it for awhile but it'll come back to him on his deathbed when he'll remember there's shit to still be guilty about.    
  
But then?    
  
Right then, he stays his feet, reaches for the popcorn, and deliberately does not worry about how the butter will muck up his glove. When he pops a kernel into his mouth, Jesse smiles up at Craig to give a chance a chance. 

  
  



	6. another mouth to feed — part v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **important:** this chapter ends with a very brief and undetailed description of two underage characters having sex. while important to include in order to portray the unequal power dynamics involved between the two boys, this fic is not at all invested in the sexuality of a fifteen-year old jesse beyond the utility of acknowledging the extent to which jesse is in over his head with this relationship. and while i usually might, im not tagging this fic as 'underage' because i dont want to skew 200 words out of however many thousands of words this fic ends up being out of proportion. hopefully this is significant enough of a warning, and feel free to skip after the text section. in future chapters, there will be some oblique references to the fact that they are sexually active, but nothing detailed.

Craig drives a '48 All Terrain Ford Hi-Gen, which is not only newer than any of the cars his friends can afford by a decade, but fancier too capability-wise. Not that Craig paid for it in full (or at all), Jesse assumes, judging by the off-colored glass on the driver's side window and the collection of bumper stickers declaring incongruent slogans like "My Daughter Is An Honor Student At Tremont" and "I Walked The Walk — Crisis Vet." Given his own occasional sticky fingers pursuit, Jesse ain't hypocrite enough to judge. However you gotta acquire your goods is your own damn business; Jesse's just here enjoying the ride.

Instead of puzzling out ownership, Jesse busies himself with the beaut that is the operating display. There's so many knobs and screens Jesse still can't make heads or tails of it, dozens of rides later. Every time he slumps into the passenger seat, a quick kiss shared with Craig in greeting warm on his lips, Jesse's eyes always linger on the complicated module to try and suss out what does what. He's slowly learning the rig that can control each propulsion unit separately, a rig which Jesse had only seen in the movies before the fateful ride to Hartford from The Light Box. ("Would you look at that, McCree! Craig's coming by town after the movie and has an extra seat! What a coinkydink. No need to strap onto the back again. Can't be tempting the coppers to pull us over anymore than they'll already want to.") 

Without fail, the lights symbolizing the twelve propels (a ridiculously excessive but badass amount) blink at him seductively to touch them and potentially fuck Craig's shit up. He hasn't yet, but he wants to especially after Craig promised that you can climb this little baby up a rocky 35% gradient incline with enough practice. 

Instead of potentially destroying Craig's car, Jesse'll usually bring the seat back and kick his feet onto the dash. (Not the most comfortable position, but it's gotta look cool, right?)

Craig will shake his head and remind him, "I don't let not one soul get away with the things you do, sugar." 

Then Jesse will shrug, change the stream station even if he likes the song playing, and then will shoot the shit with Craig until they decide how they'll spend their date. Usually a dinner or sims or partnering up with Ortega and Zulie to laugh as people awkwardly try to guess who's dating who. Craig usually pays, since he always rolls around like he ain't sure how much is in his credit chip but knows he's got enough for whatever the fuck he wants to do. Lately he wants to take Jesse to dinner or the arcade or the movies or the Cisnero twin's backyard where Dizzy and Lyn always got the hook-up for fireworks. 

Sometimes, Jesse and Craig find the places in and around Hartford where terraform-nature meets nature-nature at odd angles, to hotbox and make out. Those times, when he gets home kiss-dopey, he lies in bed for hours flushed and high and uncomfortable and hungry for intimacy and hating that he's too awkward to ask for more. 

But Craig likes that he's younger and inexperienced and nervous. Once, when they're alone and cuddled up, Craig tells Jesse he likes that he's not like the overeager wetbacks looking for a green card back in San Luis: Jesse's nice, Craig says quiet in his ear. One of the good ones—and Jesse likes that Craig thinks he's nice, even if something about the compliment makes him breathless and confused and embarrassed and angry.

It's not the first time Craig said something that triggered that same bubble of frustration. And it's probably white nonsense, which Jesse expected when he got involved with Craig. But there's shaking his head at the stupid shit his friends say and then there's having that same shit pressed into his neck in a kiss. And it's always in a kiss that swallows, hungry and sucking like with force alone Craig can draw the melanin from Jesse’s skin. A mouth that slips between questionable statements and a litany of _give me that brown sugar_ and _god, you're hot_ until Jesse can't tell the end of one sentiment and the start of another.

Jesse's liable to overreact, though, and he's got the history of black eyes and detentions and afternoons spent in holding to prove it. What Jesse needs is a second opinion, so he tries to hold onto that feeling of unrest, to remind him to bring it up to his friends later. But then Craig brings out another bud and…

The offense is lost to smoke, ash, and munchies instantly relinquished from the snacks Craig always has on hand.

Overall, though, being with Craig is a pleasant enough habit and it's a habit that gets Jesse through the end of the semester and a carefree week into summer vacation. Jesse sinks into the relationship with the kind of laziness that makes it hard to remember what the fuck actually went on during those hazy hot weeks.

Does he go to school? 

Do Jesse and them go swimming, or is he just thinking about the time when they bum rushed Federico as he was taking a bubble bath and Jesse slipped into the tub?

Does Jesse get that lingering bruise from falling out of the almond tree on Main Street, or when Craig held Jesse's arm awkwardly and for too long against the Hi-Gen door as they kissed?

How do they not get bored doing the same shit every damn day?

Does he piss or sleep?

Does he ever even step foot inside the McCree residence, or did he just couch hop as adventurous nights turned into reckless teenaged twilights?

Does he remember the dragon companion in his palm beyond pulling the glove on and off at home, or does he ignore it to memorize how leather gloves drag against Craig's sleeve tat, touching and curious and urgent—always and blessedly urgent?

He's unsure of the answers beyond the endless heat and its hazy lazy carefree calm Jesse jealously protects.

 

—

 

Then Jesse peeks into his credit account and his stomach drops.

Thing is, he's been working. And when he's not working, he's with Craig. Last year, though, he was _always_ working, and he rarely indulged beyond the occasional idle with his friends.

His credit balance's making the difference in habits extremely clear.

He can pick up some small chump change with a shift or two after school, but it's the summer, with full days free and peak harvest season and decent weather and the stream of vacationers coming through Hartford who can't afford the trains but got enough for a road trip… it's now that Jesse makes the bulk of his money for the year.

Or at least, he _should_ be making that credit. But even with Craig paying for almost everything when they are out together, the hang outs don't add anything to his savings for, say, the entire month of December when Hartford dies down to a holiday-induced stupor.

It's been fun, but around this time last year he had a few hundred more to his name. Looking at his meager savings, Jesse can already see there will be days when not even mayo toast will be a viable option. Or worse, he'll have to trade in sim rental budget for food which… yeah. Ain't gonna happen.

"Shit."

 

—

 

_**Mon, 06/01/2054** _

**You (10:41 PM):** Dudeeeee. Not sure how to tell u this but I have to cut back on us time. Need to work more and get my shit in order.  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (10:44 PM):** Wtf Jess this sounds lik your breakin up w me  
**You (10:45 PM):** No man I promise  
**You (10:45 PM):** You know thats not it  
**You (10:45 PM):** Srsly I need finds  
**You (10:45 PM):** funds  
**You (10:46 PM):** We can still hang  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (10:48 PM):** I can giv u $$ u kno I'm loaded  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (10:48 PM):** U need smethin i can get it  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (10:49 PM):** U kno I take care of u good  
**You (10:56 PM):** U do!! But need to feed myself. Cant have u buying every to ne like your not my sugardaddy itll be wierd  
**You (10:57 PM):** Buying everything like..  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:07 PM):** Dont u have food stamps all ur poor friends do  
**You (11:08 PM):** No ones called it good stamps in like a 100yrs but yeah they hav snap  
**You (11:08 PM):** I dont  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:08 PM):** So do it  
**You (11:10 PM):** Cant. Dad dont want it n u need 18+singer  
**You (11:10 PM):** Signer  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:12 PM):** That it? Look I hav. Ways. Its fckingg easy and u will get ur food nd wield still do what weve been doing  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:52 PM):**?  
**You (11:54 PM):** U seriously no a guy??  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:56 PM):** Sug I am the guy 

 

**_Tue, 06/07/2054_  **

**You (12:01 AM):** Haha ok lets talk about it thursm?  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (12:01 AM):** K  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (03:26 AM):** God I keep thinkkng about thjs  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (03:26 AM):** Y r you such a fuking drama qn all the fuking tome  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (03:29 AM):** Jesus  
**You (06:17 AM):** Sorry  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (02:24 PM):** Dony worry I think I no how u can make it up to me…… may need somethng BIG..  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (02:24 PM):** Like BIG big ;)))))))))))  
**You (02:25 PM):** !

 

—

 

As the winky face promised, Jesse loses his virginity that Thursday night.   

Craig takes him to another one of those strange manufactured creases in Hartford's land; this time, it's a stark incline that Jesse curses as they hover up and park. Not even close to the 35% gradient Craig bragged about, but the hill's got enough of a dip to get Jesse's heart pumping.

They clam bake and talk about Craig's "in" until Craig gets bored and wants Jesse to make up for his freak out. Even though Jesse has more questions, he shuts his mouth, thankful for both Craig's offer and a distraction from how much he needs the assistance. 

They climb into the backseat.

And it's… okay. Also weirdly lonely.

The whole time, Jesse's mind buzzes with the promise of a solution to his budget issue. His body shakes with the effort to hold himself steady, fighting gravity and his own clumsiness to follow Craig's urgent, giddyhigh instructions. 

 

—

 

(Jesse feels young, is the thing.

Real clueless and real young and just on the right side of in over his head that he feels decent instead of terrified… but only just.

And his palms itch under his gloves as sweat collects. It must be Jesse's imagination telling him the irritation feels worse along the dragon's slick coil.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want everyone to know that, in any other context, i would never move from introducing a relationship as 'not having sex for xyz reasons' to 'they have sex' in one chapter. however, i dont want to drag out bad guy craig (as i call him in my head) any longer than i gotta, so excuse me as i rush through this section mad quick.


	7. another mouth to feed — part vi

Nhung greets Jesse at the door in her scrubs and with her thick hair held up by what Jesse knows must be three or four hair ties. She's got Susie in her arms and Quyen at her hip, who cannot decide if he is hiding behind her or spying through the sliver between doorframe and his mom.

Jesse doesn't even have a chance to say hello or what he's there for before Nhung sighs a long "Oh thank god, needed another hand" and hands him Susie. The toddler whines and immediately reaches out for her mother; she can't speak much yet, language coming slower to her than most. She gets imprudent when Nhung walks away towards the stove, Quyen clutching onto his mother's pants. Susie squirms in Jesse's grasp, but she likes him enough now to not kick him.

"Who let you up?" Nhung asks as she turns something in a pot—mac and cheese, judging by the empty box on the sink. Quyen squeezes between Nhung and the stove.

Jesse finds his own place sitting at the dinner table next to the entrance, drawing Susie comfortably into his lap. He quickly scans the rest of the small apartment: obviously not in the kitchen, not in the attached living room/Mai's room, and the bathroom's open door shows an empty toilet and shower. The bedroom's door is swung open too, and besides a full and a twin squeezed side by side, there ain't nothing there. Jesse's pa ain't in, then.

He turns his attention back to Nhung. "3A."

She groans. "Spiteful of me, but I pray every night the government forgets to give that bigot his disability, and he won't have rent. Nice that he let you in."

"Thought I was my dad. He likes my pa, even if he can't tell the man from his son as long as they both darker than a peach."

"Everyone likes Rafael," Nhung says lightly, sweetly. She glances down to her wrist, covered with a thick bracelet, but Jesse had seen the _Rafael McCree_ there the time they all went swimming after Nhung first met his pa, years ago.

"I like Raf," Quyen chirps.

"Yeah, yeah, of course you do, sweetpea. Run off and play while I talk to Jesse."

Quyen grumbles but does skip off towards the bedroom. Susie, meanwhile, distracts herself with Jesse's hair. It's been awhile since he's seen his half-sister, so she seems surprised by the length: it's at an uncomfortable middle between overgrown and an actual style, so there's just enough for her to wrap her fingers in and pull. A sure grip, she's got. Jesse hopes he doesn't walk away with a bald spot.

"Mai out?" Jesse asks.

"The girl hit double digits and now thinks she an adult. Tempted to tie her ankles to the futon to keep her still to do homework." Pause. "Missed you at her birthday party."

"Sorry, had work. Y'know how it is." He could've switched shifts, but being surrounded by lovestruck tweens staring at him for three hours wasn't about how he'd wanted to spend an afternoon. Jesse tries to sound casual when he transitions into, "And my pa?"

Nhung stops her stirring and looks over to Jesse, confused. "Don't you know?"

Jesse's throat closes, the panic of not knowing confronted with the sheer inevitability of trouble his pa can and has gotten himself into. (Susie is surely tying knots in his hair by this point. He lets her, not wanting to have to think of another way to distract the girl's limited attention span.) "What?"

Nhung must've not heard the bubble of anxiety in his voice as she calmly rattles off, "The migraines came back last month. Was in bed crying for two straight weeks, damning that ladder he fell down with the same spiel he's always running his mouth with since I've known him. Claire let him go. Again. Very apologetic about it. Even told him he can try again after the busy season. Very decent of her, you know. He's better now, so he left to find farm work out in Rio Grande. Haven't heard back yet, but you know how he gets when he goes off: no com, no mail, no nothing—

"Wait… Didn't nobody tell you any of this? Rafael? Did he forget again? Oh Jesus, it's a surprise he can remember his head from his ass most days. I should've—"

"Oh, no. No. I knew." He hadn't known. "Just seeing if y'heard anything new. See how y'all're doing."

"Nice of you, but nothing much to report. Everything's the same as it always was."

Everything's always the same.

"That's good. Good he's looking for something to do outside; never bothers his head much to be farming. And pa needs to be kept busy, especially when he's got his head on right."

Nhung hums her agreement as she moves to strain the macaroni. Something about the action startles her, and she glances over to Jesse sideways. "You planning on staying for dinner?"

The hesitance in her voice pings Jesse's heart deep. According to Hartford gossip, she's been doing a lot better lately, especially since she got promoted from fill-in to part-time at the physical therapy place. Budget's been less tight, but she's got years of debt from when Greene Distributors bankrupted and fucked over a solid thirty-five Hartford families, Nhung and her kids included. Supporting Blanquito ain't cheap either; it wasn't for Josie and it certainly ain't for Nhung and, by extension, her kids. Loving Blanquito means laboring the cost of unstable finances, as Jesse knows firsthand.

(To be fair to the guy, Jesse's mamá got a devoted partnersoul out the arrangement, and with Blanquito, Nhung's got another chance at love and co-parent support. Apparently Blanquito is a better co-parent than a single dad: Jesse has seen how his pa treats Mai and Quyen like his own, and Susie is Blanquito's little princess. It helps that all three kids are too mannered to talk back or run the streets like Jesse's done since he was steady enough to walk. They ain't the kind of kids who will suffer through algebra after a Tuesday bender; or the chafing of handcuffs against wrists trapped between back and uncomfortable plastic seats; or how quickly cheers can wither when what follows the careless swinging of a bat is a crack of wood against… and then… then, christ, they'll never know the desperation of the flowing red, so red oh god the red, oh god not right now, Jesse, focus—They're good kids—Mai, Quyen, and Susie—and Jesse's pa does right by them.

Jesse, however, is still waiting on the returns on his investment of time, care, affection, what have you.)

In the end, Nhung must've measured the exact amount for a decent meal for Mai, Quyen, Susie, and (hopefully) herself. Another setting would throw off her game, and Jesse ain't desperate enough to do that to anyone. Jesse knows Nhung don't got much, and he refuses to impose on the lady. It's why he's still babysitting the underfarmed, underwatered, underterraformed McCree plot, and not here squeezing into a futon shared with Mai.

It's why Jesse says "Nah, I ate" even though he hadn't.

Jesse's good, though. He has a can of beans and toast waiting for him at home.

"Actually, ma'am, I gotta be heading out. One thing, though." He gets up and, after wrangling Susie's fingers from his hair, puts her down in the seat he vacated. She immediately slides down and runs off, probably after Quyen. "It's mainly why I came over. Got a trip with a buddy to San Luis, so I won't be in the house. Y'know my pa ain't reading no note if I leave it, so thought I'll tell you."

"Good for you. How long?"

"Oh it'll be…"

Jesse had timed it out.

The workshop is a two day ride from Hartford one way, and Craig guesses that it'll take the guy a day, day and a half to put together the EBT chip. Craig also wants them to spend _at least_ two nights at his place so they can fool around now that the gates've been opened, except they'll be able to do so comfortably.

The days quickly add up to just over a week. The time away from actually working makes Jesse itch: the days off will only put more a strain on his savings.

But if all goes well, the government assistance would mean he will be fucking set. He won't have to work too much more to feel set for the entire year; hell, he might be working for sim time and luxury goods by now.

He should say just over a week.

But there's something stopping him. He feels the conservative estimate stuck there at his adam's apple. The words are caught between his desire to luxuriate at Craig's place, and the just-received news that Jesse will be spending the summer alone with his pa gone wandering.

Why bother with that if he can just… hang out in San Luis? Craig made it perfectly clear in his car that he wanted more than just the two days. Jesse pulled back on the offer, but perhaps he did so a minute too hastily…

"...It'll be a while. Trying to be spontaneous. I'll be checking in."

"Well, I'll let him know if he comes back before you, which I doubt." Nhung finishes up the mac and cheese, the squishing of the noodles sounding loud and unappetizing as she mixes in the sauce. Jesse steps up to her and kisses her cheek goodbye. "Thanks for stopping by, Jesse. Have fun with your friend!"

"I will. Here's to hoping I'll make the next birthday!" he calls from the door, guessing already he won't.

"Here's to hoping!" Nhung says, also guessing he won't. He closes the door to her turning back to the family dinner.

 

—

 

The journey home from Nhung's is a long one; the McCree plot and her apartment building are about as far apart as you can get in Hartford without moving well outside the town's official borders. Jesse blames the length of the ride for the knot of heat burning his face bright and ugly as he barrels through his house and into his room. Blames the July sun blinding him for how he can't focus his eyes on what he's packing. Everything is behind a thin gossamer of sweat and blur.

He don't feel bad about being left and don't even feel any particular way about not being told. His pa's recall is utterly shot, and if he's gonna remember anything at least he told Nhung: the woman got small kids to consider. She worries.

But… fuck. All Jesse can think about is how many times in the past month he'd left out a plate just in case his pa came home hungry. Wasn't every day, but enough for Jesse to feel humiliated and shamed by his own _stupidity_ at not noticing that his pa ain't eat a single one. Not since his attempt at chiles poblanos, the empty plate Jesse's only proof Blanquito had been by. That shoulda signaled Jesse to stop, but he just didn't _notice_. Jesse thought maybe Nhung's new job was taking care of Blanquito enough the man didn't need a second dinner. Or maybe Blanquito was having one of his phases when he hadda be picky because the headaches made most things taste like ash.

Jesse ate so much food microwaved instead of freshly made… for what?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The beat of his heart sounds in his ears, though, rhythmic and loud and angry. It makes him pull out a second large dufflebag. It makes him grab for things that aren't just clothing. His papers. His tablet. His favorite lighter and two back-ups. Holos of Ortega and his friends. Then, impulsively, gingerly, the box kept in his sock drawer.

Mementos rattle as he handles it, and they remind him of the museum alarms from school trips alerting him that he's crossing a line he ain't supposed to.

Despite the warning, Jesse rests the box on a stack of underwear.

It marks… something like a decision not fully formed, but a decision nonetheless. Each new addition to his bags becomes more and more strategically chosen as his gut recognizes what his mind refuses to name: this is what running away looks like.

He continues making choices about what to pack and not, but he doesn't have that much to leave behind, anyway.

 

—

 

_**Sun, 06/12/2054** _

**You (10:57 PM):** Fixin a xtra bag. Lets make this trip one to remmber  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:24 PM):** Fck yes

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy this blackwatch fucking event is on its way toward actually murdering me. the biggest thing is how wild its been to see the change in mood in gabe's tumblr tag. ive been thumping gabriel reyes apologia since the beginning, so im getting whiplash as everyone is finally jumping on the Gabriel Reyes Has Done Nothing Wrong In His Life gospel brigade. im sad it took making canon a honeysweet, stefan-the-hot-guy-from-accounting voice to do it, but at least people are here now. (and y'all, dont be coming at me that it's "too white" like,, ya only saying that if your mind cant handle an afrolatino sounding non-threatening and like jaja, i aint messing with that nonsense.) join me, friends, if you still doubt this beautiful, charming man. and if you refuse, let me warn you now you aint gonna like my blackwatch arc(s) because... like, hashtag fic spoilers but? i promise you i will sanctify him pretty much for the entire thing???? whoops??


	8. hightailing — part i

Craig pinches the sensitive skin at Jesse's elbow and whispers into his ear, "You best behave."

No one notices the small action, the rest of the crew wrapped up in the spectator display showing the current sim running. The player (Simon? Sal?) claimed to be better with demolitions than guns when he stepped in, but he's putting a decent show with the shotgun controller. Even more than decent considering the map loaded is a tricky interior scene, full of aggravating neon colors and patterns meant to distract the player. It's Jesse's least favorite challenge mode: he sees no need to add cheap jump scares whenever the mannequins emerge from pink and orange zigzags as creeping shadows. Why over complicate things, especially since the mod's generous shooting boxes reward sloppy players wasting rounds on empty space.

But it's a party favorite at every arcade Jesse's ever been to because the display is beautiful to watch. Like a pop goth princess threw up on a fps. Out here in San Luis ain't apparently any different.

"I know, babe. Heard the first hundred times."

On the morning starting Jesse's fifth week of lazying around Craig's trailer and the surrounding mobile park, Craig decided that it was high time for Jesse to meet some of his friends. Jesse didn't complain none: while nice to rest and cook and get high and binge watch every piece of media he has neglected lately, Jesse was starting to go stir silly spending his days alone. However excited Jesse was to meet some new people at the crew's monthly arcade run, though, Craig warning him a week straight about not stepping out of line has been a bit much.

Reminding him now, swallowed by shadow cast in the neon swirl of lights and pixels and machinery, is overkill. Jesse's on the wild side, for sure, but he can play good boy when pressed.

"I'm not gonna embarrass you in front of your people. I get it: these guys are your friends but also your associates," Jesse continues. He crosses his arms and covers his elbow with his hand, just in case Craig starts getting ideas. "I ain't got no plans to mess up a good thing for you."

"Yeah?" His favorite target taken from him, Craig settles for moving up into Jesse's space, the front of his right leg near flush with the back of Jesse's left. "So what you call telling them about our car stalling last week?"

His tone scratches over Jesse's skin with its clumsy attempt at authority, which Jesse finds funny enough to roll his eyes at instead of sneering his hackles as he would with anyone else. Craig's lucky he's got that Texan charm that makes his pointed jabs come across as an inside joke. Jesse's pretty sure he would think Craig's an ass otherwise.

"That story made 'em laugh. You asked me to get them to like me so I'm doing just that. And if anything it makes you look good and me the fool who can't keep his hands off tech he ain't got no business touching." Jesse leans into Craig's solid body, kisses his jaw. "You worry too much."

"And your ass only worries about where you're getting your next meal."

A nerve in Jesse's jaw twitches at the food joke, one he's mentioned to Craig he don't like. But here it is again, he guesses. Fine. Totally fine.

Jesse takes a breath to remind himself that it's just teasing; Jesse's sensitive is all. With his inhale, he smells the damp stink of popcorn butter, fried anything able to batter, sweat, and the dirty plastic and metal of the sim rigs. He lets that familiar smell comfort him as he sinks further into his boyfriend. It's not like Craig hasn't shared the benefits of Jesse's new EBT chip when he expects dinner at the ready every day. It's tough to manage: Craig's guy had to register for the lowest allowance to make it official while not pinging any flags. Making a decent dinner for two people on the daily eats up nearly the entire balance. But combined with what Craig puts into not let the pantry run empty, it's still a better deal than school lunch and (when he started working last year to afford it) a meager supper. And… and, well. Fuck.

Here's Jesse counting his meals again, like he about to starve if Craig doesn't replace the perpetual bag of Hot Cheetos lurking on top the microwave.

Maybe Craig was onto something.

Jesse lets the knot in his stomach go; chooses to riff off his boyfriend instead of shutting him down: "I'm gonna beanstalk up one day, you hear? Imma be as tall as a house, and I need the calories as to not stunt my potential height. A growing boy's gotta eat."

"Eat me out of house and home, maybe," Craig mumbles, but he does cup Jesse's right hip with his bowl of a hand.

"Well," Jesse nips playfully, "I know of something you can eat in exchange—"

"Ay, lovebirds! Either of you getting the next round?"

The Game Over screen blares out a novice score in blinding pink, highlighting the crowd of about two dozen of Craig's associates. They're all looking at the pair expectantly, though Jesse knows Craig makes a point to tell everyone he's ever gone to an arcade with that virtual reality makes him nauseous; he's a rhythm games man, through and through.

The question is for Jesse, then, except getting at him sideways by leaving an easy escape route if he backs out of the challenge.

Jesse smirks and stage whispers to Craig, more than loud enough for the crew to hear, "Is it misbehaving if I show off?"

Craig pinches his side, lightly now, affectionately, and growls, "Nah. Go get 'em, tiger."

The crowd responds to the showboating with laughs, "Oh wow okay, watch it! Big man coming through"s, and a few incredulous eyebrow raises puzzling out what this newbie can do. Craig never said exactly how he knows them, but Jesse's got eyes and can see the patches stitched into most of their gear. Stylized emblems—three distinct variations—cover jackets and pants and shirts, declaring allegiance to gangs that must be in business with one another for how cordial everyone is right now. Jesse only recognizes the Dusty Speeders’ roadrunner patch, but the other two—a wolf head and a skull surrounded by chains—are intimidating enough. Judging by who has and hasn't a patch, there are few free agents like Craig in the crew.

Jesse's in the midst of organized troublemakers but takes it all in stride as he saunters to the rig.

Nice to have an audience, Jesse thinks as he loads up the basic warehouse map with a trickshot mod, realism slider turned up high. It's the first time in a long while since he's had navel gazers, not since he stopped streaming his plays while training to recoup the dexterity lost by the glove. But even before then his friends got bored watching him kill it every time.

Jesse still ain't up to his full aiming strength yet, and he's just high enough that his hand will refuse to hold as steady as he's capable of, but none of these fools know that.

Excited and nervous for this rodeo, he picks up the visor and pistol controller, slides in the gun weight cartridge that makes the plastic feel less like a toy, steps into the rig, and closes the door. He's welcomed to a familiar scene: the dark, with only subtle LED lines around the edges of the rig letting him know what's what. The bulbous walls curve outward giving the illusion of being in a sphere, and without the sim playing it drops him into the feeling of eternity and outer space and things that don't bother going bump in the night, preferring to just chill out in your peripheral.

This rig has got a walk pad at the center, unlike the setup in Hartford, but Jesse's read that the tech is too clumsy to offer the mobility needed for it to enhance the game. Too late to turn the walker option off, but Jesse expects his mod will be using it little.

He moves intentional, determined, to middle of the pad and puts on the VR visor. In the brief moment before he turns the sim on, Jesse lets the world drop. He forgets the curious crowd underestimating him, forgets Craig and his pinching teases, forgets acronyms that have allowed him to feel full, fuller than he can remember being in a long long time. He cherishes the silence of the rig, the weight of the controller, and the confidence of his own skill.

"Start simulation."

Light flashes. A target swings into sight almost immediately, and time freezes as Jesse arcs his gun up at the ready. Jesse aims, squeezes the trigger, and then—

Bang, bang.

 


	9. hightailing — part ii

**_Sun, 07/19/2054_ **  

**Unknown (4:08 PM):** hey this is letty, arcade girl w blu hair  
**Unknown (4:09 PM):** wanna say again. if u ever get bored of ur bean queen pampering u i got a job  
**You (4:14 PM):** Missy I told u last week,, it s just a game…… can't accrual shoot.  
**You (4:14 PM):** *actually  
**Letty Blue (4:16 PM):** yeah. yeah.  
**Letty Blue (4:18 PM):** hnstly its a lil shift in perspective but otherwise?? its the same. thats y they made the sims. so u can train ppl for the real thing  
**Letty Blue (4:23 PM):** telling tho that u got nthing to say bout my lil nicknme for craig.   
**Letty Blue (4:23 PM):** think about it. lookin out for u. just let me kno, ok?  
**You (draft):** Sometkmes he just says shit and I feel

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **fic spoilers ahead! beware!** to make up for the length of this chapter, some exciting news! i struggled a lot with when hanzo would be introduced: part of me wanted to draw it out until overwatch recall, because that is my strongest headcanon about when they first meet. but i knew that y'all would probably be :(( if i waited that long, and lord is it even possible to have a slow burn for that long without introducing the second character in the pair?? but dont fear! a stray thought about genji's design from the overwatch uprising event inspired me, and i thought of a way to get in some young mchanzo action! i think everyone who's managed this weird fic so far might enjoy learning about jesse as much as i like writing his backstory, but there will be a payout sooner than a billion chapters in when you might have lost your interest. its still not going to be for awhile, but boy! i hope y'all enjoy what i have in store!


	10. hightailing — part iii

**_Sat, 08/26/2045_ **  

 **Ortega (4:15 PM):** com me r the fuck now or im telling every on e about how u the 1 who did red rck

 

—

 

When Jesse gets Ortega's text ( _a swing, a crack of wood, then red… red, red…_ ), he fires back, _Give me 15_ , and neatly presses the pen he's holding onto the half-completed crossword in front of him.

He stands, stretching to crack his back, and prays as unobstrusively as possible that Babs finished her business as quickly as possible. 

She ain't gonna like his leaving early, having gotten accustomed to Jesse's afternoon visits bleeding into early suppers over the month since they made friends. Jesse knows how it grates Babs awful to leave a puzzle partway. It's not like she can do it herself: while she's got all the puzzle apps on her accessibility devices, she claims the print-only San Luis Ledger offers the cleverest clues. Her hands ain't doing any writing no more, but she's got a pile high of Ledger crossword clippings in hopes of squeezing in time with her various aides. Jesse and her have been running blazes through her stack since he brought her mail that got mixed up with Craig's and the ensuing chat went pleasant. This interruption will surely mess up her flow for the day.

The universe wants Jesse to make the fifteen-minute mark he promised Ortega, though, because the bathroom door muffles the sounds of a toilet flush and faucet running not two licks of a minute into Jesse's wait.

Babs enters the main room still wiping her hands dry on her pants. She takes one look at him and slumps her shoulders, already guessing at what's coming. 

"It's been lovely talking with you, ma'am, but I got a call I'm needing to take." 

Disappointment creases her brows, but Babs is too timid in her mannerisms to say anything about it. Instead, she kisses his cheek goodbye. "Thanks for indulging an old woman." 

"My pleasure to puzzle with you." 

With the reminder of how they've spent his visit, Babs glances at the incomplete crossword. With a small sigh she resigns to holding off finishing it until Jesse returns. 

It pains him to leave Babs hanging, but Ortega means business. 

"If it don't take too long, I'll try my very darnedest to come back afterward," Jesse says guilty. 

She perks up. "Oh, do! I might be able to scrounge up a sweet with your name on it if you do manage a second round. Oh and Jesse—" She squeezes his elbow. "Don't think I haven't forgotten you need talking to about the stunts I hear you and Craig pull in that car of yours out by the bike yard. One day you'll hit a dirt mound at an angle and don't be expecting me to cry over you when you land on your neck."

"Alright, alright. See you!"

Another kiss on the cheek goodbye, then Jesse walks out Bab's door and in between mobile homes as quickly as he can without alerting anyone's suspicions, but the speed is still a frustratingly tempered gait. Hands hanging clearly at his sides, he greets everyone he sees watching him. Most ignore his hellos, a few scoff, but gone is the open hostility Jesse met when his face—brown and round and always halfway to smirking—was new to them. His familiarity has permitted him some allowance of respect, but not enough for Jesse to rush.

His com burns in his pocket the whole five-minute-turned-ten walk, but Jesse doesn't whip it out until he's in Craig's home. Ortega's gunning for a fight, and if it comes to shouting he wants to keep it soundly within closed doors and not in front of the other Victory Park residents.

After a cursory check that Craig still isn't in, Jesse drops onto the bed and yanks off his gloves. He ignores the stark difference in browns between his hands and forearms as he pulls out his com and calls Ortega.

It's not even two rings in (each resounding with a distant swing, crack, then red, red, red…) before Ortega's voice comes screaming through, "You know where your man is?"

"Hello to you too."

"McCree, I swear to god I ain't playing no games with you today."

Craig is out, doing a pick-up a county away—or at least, Jesse's pretty sure that's what he said as Jesse lit up for his morning smoke. It was early for Craig to really be awake, but not for Jesse, who had been up long enough to already finish with his tasks of bookkeeping, checking their stores, tallying what's moving fast right now, and separating the latest batches of supplies into easy-to-price baggies. (He does a little everyday, so it's not too much work after the initial few weeks of organization. How the fuck Craig got by for so long without him is beyond Jesse.)  

Jesse tries to remember if Craig said anything more specific about the trip but fails. He huffs, "Out," expecting Ortega will fill him in whether she thinks he knows or not.

She doesn't disappoint: "Your man's car is parked in front of your place unannounced, he's in there doing god knows what, and you call that 'out?' Like, dude. Dude. I thought he murdered you when he come by without your ass in the passenger seat."

"So this ain't about Red Rock?"

"Got your attention, didn't it? And that's what I needed so…"

Jesse groans away from the mic, queasy, and sinks his face into his soulmark, hoping whatever magic or godly force or funky alien tech in the dragon can carry him through this awful conversation and Jesse's shock that Ortega could dare use Red Rock as a ruse. The dragon did not touch the red, the wood, didn't hold the bat Jesse swung. Wasn't manifest yet; couldn't bear witness to the collapse of a face. Maybe the hand at Red Rock is not the hand the dragon slithers down. Maybe he changed Jesse's hand enough for his skin to not remember… (Jesse remembers, though.)

The skin on his palm is warm and clammy, so Jesse doesn't feel much improved as he asks, "And where you at?"

"Across the street, waiting to get the jump on him as soon as you give the word."

"Ortega, calm your fool self down before your pigheadedness gets you another night staring at Officer Dole's ugly head 'til he thinks ya learned your lesson."

"What the fuck is Craig doing then?"

"He…" Jesse kicks off his shoes and carefully curls up in bed, finding the nugget of truth that will de-escalate the situation. "I told him that the days been ending sooner, so I'll be needing a jacket for the night chill. He went to fetch something for me."

"Don't take longer than a minute to find a jacket, and certainly not worth the trip for that one thing."

"Maybe… maybe I'm needing more than the clothes I brought." He pauses, feeling himself choke up involuntarily. "Maybe I'm needing all of it."

Ortega grumbles, chewing on his words, and Jesse can hear her brain jumping tracks between suspicion to surprise. She ain't stupid, and she's been at Jesse's side for over a decade of his short life; she gets what he means without having to fuss over laying everything out unnecessarily. Jesse just wishes it wasn't with this here set-up—over the com, navigating Ortega's impulsiveness, burning hot without the AC turned on yet—that Jesse is first admitting the permanence of his leaving out loud.

"School starts next week."

"Yeah."

"And you're still moving your stuff out there."

"Yeah."

"You woulda told me already if he really was your partnersoul, right?"

"Yeah."

"He ain't your partnersoul."

"Correct."  

"And he's cool you got a mark?"

"Yeah, and doesn't even mind that I'm modest. Says he's into the gloves."

"You thought this through?"

He joked with Craig about it, an aside that took more weight every time he washed the same two pairs of jeans knowing he's got two more back in Hartford he could've have in rotation. _What if I moved in?_ It was a joke, but Jesse should've anticipated Craig rushing forward once the idea was planted in that thick skull of his. So like Craig to barrel into shit in the easiest way for him without any extra considerations, like that maybe Jesse would've liked visiting Hartford. Like that maybe Jesse really wasn't serious, and was planning on returning to his hometown at the end of summer vacation.

"Yeah."

But… as much as he's gonna yell at Craig about this later, Jesse cannot deny the relief in the pit of his stomach at not having to make the decision. The only joke about leaving, in the end, was Jesse's comedic failure of an attempt to hide how desperately he wanted to stay in San Luis.

And Ortega… Ortega is a rough butch, stone-faced and steel-ab'ed and slick-tongued. But her voice is soft, softer than he ever thought any part of her could be, as she whispers, "What we gonna do with you, buddy?"

Jesse doesn't let himself dwell on the resignation laced through the question. "San Luis High is decent, I hear. Enough kids in Victory need to be picked up they send out a bus. No more biking necessary if I go."

"If."

Beat.

"Yeah."

She groans, "I kind of regret introducing you, but I want you to be happy and you're happier than you have been in a long ass time. And…"

Then she doesn't say anything, caught on a half-thought. Jesse holds her silence, not quite sure what she's got tumbling through her head but sure enough that it's not something to interrupt.

It's a long moment. He allows her every second.

Then:

"He's treating you right, McCree?"

"I'm fed."

They both know that that's enough.

 

—

 

Then, later:

"You can't keep holding Red Rock over me."

"You know I'll never tell."

She's right. Ortega wouldn't tell anyone about it. Can't. Wasn't ever a doubt that a crew hit up that Red Rock grocery, six hours away from Hartford. It would get back to them all—Ortega, Zulie, the twins, the rest—if she let slip anything about that night. A peek into the finances would find suspect the similar timing between big bid items like, say, Lyn and Dizzy's PSX and the copay for Augusto' bro's braces. A deeper peek would reveal the bumps in their balances spanning for months. It would be hard, but a dedicated mind and a sharper eye would note the other groceries, all at least five hours away in every direction from Hartford that got held up. Only someone who knew where to look would note the pattern ends at Red Rock and its red the red cracked red—god—the slip of red streaming…

(None of their parents ever asked where the money came from for the months the kids kept their steady stream of cred. The adults were happy enough to have it. A police investigation would certainly dispel the willful ignorance they clung to.)

Jesse won't snitch, though. Would lie to get his friends out if it. Ortega knows that, and though he loves that girl to death, there's a certain pleasure he knows she gets out of his panic whenever she lords the knowledge of that fucking mindless swing, the crack of wood against skull, and the red, that ugly red…

"Just…"

His muscles tense, remembering the swing, a crack of wood, then red, red, red…

"I know. I'm sorry, McCree."

 

—

 

Later still, over a just completed crossword, an echo of a thought:

However you gotta acquire your goods—swing—is your own damn—crack—business; Jesse's just here—the red, stinking—enjoying the ride.

 

—

 

And then, finally:

"Y'shoulda checked in."

"God, sug, don't you fucking know how to say thank you without making a comment?"

Jesse's tired. Jesse spent hours and hours waiting for Craig's return, pissed and getting more so every hour past sundown. He drunk everything in the fridge—a bunch of Budwisers and a Pabst tall boy left by one of Craig's clients. Then Jesse smoked three days' worth from his stash of unsellablely low-quality shit Craig gives him free as long as Jesse keeps playing sweet little homemaker.

(Craig has a lot of jokes.)

It is well after midnight and Jesse's tired and bitter and crossfaded in a bad way, and Craig is tired and hungry and defensive in a worse way. Jesse doesn't want to fight except… god, he can't have stayed up this long just to give up for a little naptime. Like a baby. A very drunk, very high baby who can't help but yell as he stands at the stove, pushing the chilies poblanos he prepped earlier around a hot pan.

"But you—no. Yeah, y'right. Just… tell me next time? Woulda liked to… to at least say hi to Ortega—"

A slam, hard and absolute, hits their tiny, float-out-a-wall tabletop. Jesse imagines he hears the hinges squeal under the sudden strain, the fright of impact stressing the metal almost as much as Jesse is bothered.

Without turning from the chilies, Jesse sneers a firm, "Don't go hitting things like that'll scare me into thinking you even a quarter right. Y'ain't." Jesse can barely hear himself over his heartbeat thumping at his ear drums.

Craig huffs and shuts up, and his silence is not an apology but instead his being fed up with the conversation. Jesse turns over Craig's chilies one more time before he plates them (still not right, even with the eggs; what did he do wrong?), his heart beating fast. Stupid Jesse. Stupid fucking wuss.

"Thank you," Craig says pointedly but not quite nasty enough to get another rise out of Jesse.

"You're welcome."

 

—

  
Jesse dreams that night of a mindless swing, a supersonic crack of wood, and red, a pool of red, stinking and shiny and thick like ground meat fat coagulated in chilling oil.

 


	11. hightailing — part iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an epistolary chapter, one that moves fairly quickly with a lot of people coming in and out where dates/times are super important to understanding flow. also, each character has a writing quirk and they all pretty much operate through a rushed txtspk with lots of typos and not enough punctuation. because this can be hard for some people to process, **ive included a summary of the chapter's events in the end notes.**

_**Tue, 08/29/2045** _

**Oluwa (9:54 PM):** See you tomorrow you fucking liar  
**You (10:00 PM):** I aint lying I'm in fcking San Luis

 

_**Wed, 08/30/2045** _

**Oluwa (8:29 AM):** OH SHIT JAY U AINT HERE  
**Oluwa (8:29 AM):** YOU RLY AINT COMING TO SCHOOL?????

 

—

 

 **Ruff Gays  
** _Zulie Washington created this group  
_ _You're friends with 10 people in this group_

AUG 30 AT 8:32 AM

 **Oluwa:** GUYS JESSE AINT IN ALGEBRA  
**Oluwa:** HE RLY AINT COMING  
**Oluwa:** TEACH SAID HIS NAME N EVERYHTING  
**Oluwa:** THAT BOY ABANDONED US  
**Lyn:** Nah bro slept in he haddddd to  
**Lyn:** [Gif]  
**Oluwa:** GIRL it s basically the end of first period & he aint never show up  
**Zulie:** holy shit that boy never misses a class. mofo won't have his grade drop for an absence when he would rather not do the hw  
**Jessica:** I told u  
**Jessica:** Been telling u assholes mcee was srs  
**Augusto** : [Gif]  
**Austin** : [Gif]  
**Andrew:** [Gif]  
**Jessica:** LIKE ZUZU U MY GIRL N U AINT BELIEVE ME????????  
**Lyn:** Nah he just running late

AUG 30 AT 8:59 AM

 **Federico:** YO He isnt in english FUCKER FLEW THE COOP  
**Lyn:** YO  
**Dizzy:** YOOO

 

—

 

 **Lyn Cisnero (9:05 AM):** YOOOOOOOoooOo

 

—

 

 **Dizzy Transnero (9:05 AM):** yoOOooOoooooooOOOOOoooo

 

—

 

 **F Ricocito (9:07 AM):** DuuuuuDdddde we woukdve thrown you a going away party if we known the move was permanent!!!!  
**F Ricocito (9:10 AM):** Wouldhave brought the good shit out for you brother

 

—

 

 **Santi Martinez (9:12 AM):**!!

 

—

 

 **Oluwas Asshole BF (9:21 AM):** gonna miss you bbitch!

 

—

 

 **Oluwas Rude BF (9:24 AM):**????? McFUCK ME SILLY. U LIVING THE DREAM  & DIDNT TAKE ME W U?

 

—

 

 **Oluwas Nice BF (9:27 AM):** Have fun in San Luis!

 

—

 

 **Dizzy Transnero (9:55 AM):** but srsly whos gonna have my back when I gotta beat up the cishets?????  
**Dizzy Transnero (9:56 AM):** liKE,,  
**Dizzy Transnero (9:56 AM):** you better punch a Straight for me tonite

 

—

 

 **F Ricocito (10:34 AM):** Coming back soon maybe? Can still throw a party of sumethng.

 

—

 

 **Zuzu (11:46 AM):** gonna pour a 40 of that shit you drink over a pack of marbs in your honor, jackass  
**Zuzu (11:49 AM):** imma whoop ur as the next time i see u for abandoning us tho

 

—

 

 **Santi Martinez (11:52 AM):** *!*

 

—

 

 **Zuzu (12:33 PM):** say hi to craig for me at least

 

—

 

 **Craig ❤ Dalton (12:38 PM):** y r ur idiot fuking friends hitting me up I thought u handled this

 

—

 

Messages - 87

 

—

 

 **Santi Martinez (12:45 PM):** *!!!!!!!!!!!!*  
**Santi Martinez (1:12 PM):** :((((((((  
**Santi Martinez (2:26 PM):** :((((((((((((? (**  
**You (2:42 PM):** Hey, Santi. I am sorry you're upset. I can call you. If I call I will talk to you. I will talk about why I left. Do you want me to call?  
**You (2:43 PM):** YES  
**You (2:43 PM):** orr  
**You (2:43 PM):** NO  
**Santi Martinez (2:44 PM):** NO  
**You (2:44 PM):** Okay. I will follow up later.  
**You (2:44 PM):** I love you, buddy.

 

—

 

 **You (2:50 PM):** What the duck O I told u to tell every one I was srs about not coming back theyvve been hitting me up all day so i just wok up to like a 100 fumcking txts  
**Ortega (3:01 PM):** sry i dun kno y everyones freaking out i told em??  
**Ortega (3:03 PM):** u said every year u gonna run out on blanquito can you blame them fir not believe in you  
**You (3:03 PM):** Fufk  
**You (3:04 PM):** Is someone with Santi theyre gone nonvolatile, and idk how bad or if it was all day?  
**You (3:04 PM):** *nonverbal  
**Ortega (3:06 PM):** yeah. They alright, no meltdown just talkin is not happenin. did not even have to miss anybclasses  
**Ortega (3:17 PM):** also WTF how u wakin up just now. U never sleep in  
**You (3:19 PM):** Same as usual. Craig came in late so I stayed up cooked and then we fooled around idk I got no where to b so y get up earl  
**You (3:20 PM):** *earl  
**You (3:20 PM):** *early  
**Ortega (3:20 PM):** lmfao u wild. Love u jaybird

 

—

 

_**Sat, 09/02/2045** _

**Dizzy Transnero (6:11 PM):** like i know why you left but i still miss you a lot n i want u to kno that ok jess??  
**You (6:19 PM):** Understoof. Imma miss u too

 

—

 

You have one new message.

New message: "Hi Jesse, it's Mx Cardona. I am calling because some of my fellow teachers noticed you haven't come to any classes last week, and we want to make sure everything is okay. And… I did overhear Jessica say you are currently in San Luis. If this will be a permanent arrangement, know that I will make it as easy as possible to transfer to San Luis High. I just care that you're in school. It's only a few days of class you've missed, and with that head between your shoulders it'll be easy to make up. Call me back anytime."

If you would like to replay this message, press—

[7]

You have no new messages.

 

—

 

_**Thu, 09/07/2045** _

**Ortega (9:00 PM):** are you gonna respond to cardona?? Xe been on my ass NONSTOP  
**You (9:03 PM):** Don't wanna talk to xir much. All xe is doing is acting as the mouthpiece for the school n I'm not about that tbh  
**Ortega (9:04 PM):** So Def no school then?????  
**You (9:04 PM):** IDK. Maybe maybe not  
**You (9:05 PM):** I am considering my options  
**You (9:07 PM):** I just… I dun kno if I can really do school rn. I been really tired since I got to SL  
**Ortega (9:10 PM):** Bro thats what ya get for hustling urself 24/7.  
**Ortega (9:16 PM):** U know wha  
**Ortega (9:17 PM):** Take the break from brooks  
**Ortega (9:19 PM):** U *******still***** need to find some thing to do in the mean while mccree or ur gonna bore urself to death  
**Ortega (9:19 PM):** U hear??

 

—

 

 **Letty Blue (4:23 PM):** think about it. lookin out for u. just let me kno, ok?  
**You (draft):** What kind  of work you got

 

—

 

 **Ruff Gays  
** _Zulie Washington created this group  
_ _You're friends with 10 people in this group_

SEP 14 AT 5:09 PM

 **You:** Wait what happened what yall talkin about  
**Lyn:** You rly had to b there sorry babe  
**Dizzy:** no you can explain! its just that mr rizzoli went on our cases about how loud we were n its not like we was that bad  
**Dizzy:** he got in our faces and yelled and idk  
**Lyn:** Rizzoli is sucha asshole  
**Dizzy:** and he told us all that if we didnt get in line we’ll end up on the streeths  
**Santiago:** And then I laughed about it.  
**Dizzy:** then santi was all like, of course sir  
**Dizzy:** and it was rly funny in person i promise

SEP 14 AT 5:14 PM

 **You:** Oh okay.  
**You:** Yeah. Riz the dicks such a dick  
**Santiago:** Honestly.

 

—

 

_**Thu, 09/14/2045** _

**Dizzy Transnero (5:17 PM):** it woulda been funnier w u there like i felt it in the moment u woulda landed a good joke to totally destroy riz. miss ur face  
**You (6:19 PM):** love u diz and miss u too

 

—

 

 **Letty Blue (4:23 PM):** think about it. lookin out for u. just let me kno, ok?  
**You (draft):** I won't do drug shit but

 

—

 

_**Fri, 09/15/2045** _

**Craig ❤ Dalton (4:42 PM):** Gonna b late lik 2? can u leave a plate out  
**You (4:45 PM):** Course! Itching for something specific?  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (4:47 PM):** Nah w/e  
**You (4:47 PM):** Okay! Love u

 

—

 

 **To:** The Beet Box <thebeetbox@person.al>  
**From:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**Date:** Sun, Sep 17, 2045 at 4:28 PM  
**Subject:** Busboy Job

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and I saw your job listing for the busboy job at your store. I think I would be a great candidate because I work hard and I have worked a lot of food jobs. I am going to be honest with you and say that I am 15 (16 in Nov) but I promise I am a hard worker and focused too and would really do well under your leadership. Let me know if you are interested in me as your busboy. I attached my resume. Thanks, J

[Attached: Jesse McCree Resume.doc]

 

—

 

 **To:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**From:** The Beet Box  <thebeetbox@person.al>  
**Date:** Mon, Sep 18, 2045 at 12:03 PM  
**Subject:** Re: Busboy Job

Hi Jesse,

Thanks for your resume. We need someone for early afternoon, when you should really be in school. Thanks for being upfront with your age, because we would have said the same thing in person and this saves us any awkwardness. Even though we won't take on someone quite as young, I do wish you the best.

Andy

\- show quoted text -

 

—

 

 **To:** Tee One <T180@Unit.F90>  
**From:** Jesse McCree <jaymccree@person.al>  
**Date:** Mon, Sep 18, 2045 at 3:55 PM  
**Subject:** Cashier Job

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and

 

—

 

_**Tue, 09/19/2045** _

**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:02 AM):** Will be bac in an hr, want to head to the track?? I think I figured out a way to fix the propells 5-6 roatation problem when I hit the ramp halfway htrough the course  
**You (11:07 AM):** Sure babe. Want me bring the camera? Dont want to miss a single stunt im sure.  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:14 AM):** Fuck u know it!!!!!!!!!!!

 

—

 

 **To:** Dharma H  <dharmahyde00@hotmail.com>  
**From:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**Date:** Wed, Sep 20, 2045 at 1:49 AM  
**Subject:** Cashier Job

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and

 

—

 

_**Thu, 09/21/2045** _

**Dizzy Transnero (3:11 PM):** are u ever coming by to visit??  
**You (3:24 PM):** still need more time hun  
**Dizzy Transnero (3:24 PM):** okay of course that makes sense. well just dont me too mch a stranger.... and let me kno if im being too much i just want to make sure u kno someones thinking about u in hartford  


 

—

 

 **To:** Victory Diner  <tomfarrow45@person.al>  
**From:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**Date:** Sun, Sep 24, 2045 at 4:16 PM  
**Subject:** Dishwasher Job

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and

 

—

 

_**Mon, 09/25/2045** _

**Craig ❤ Dalton (11:02 AM):** Track again. You in?

 

—

 

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and

 

—

 

 **Letty Blue (4:23 PM):** think about it. lookin out for u. just let me kno, ok?  
**You (draft):** Would I have to

 

—

 

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and

 

—

 

_**Fri, 09/29/2045** _

**Craig ❤ Dalton (5:22 PM):** HLY SHTITT WE BLOWIN UP SUG  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (5:22 PM):** [link]

 

—

 

[video]

12,956 views

 **craigthedman:** Hitting The Trails - Best U8-Twirl Everr1!!!!! #HiGen #hovertricks #ramp #newmexico #dirttrail #hovers #hoverlovers #hoverdude #hovmaster #catchthatair #u8 #u8turn #hovertricksnm #hovertricks #bestposts #highrolling EDIT: FK HI REDDIT  
...  
**yiffmasteralxx:** SHITTTTTT. IVE BEEN TRYING TO DO THIS SFOR AGES  
**therealladamsandler:** follow for more tricks like this @therealladamsandler  
**bortaampson:** faked  
**shawn89:** Wow! That's a beautiful car..

 

—

 

 **You (5:27 PM):** Omg!!!!!!  
**Craig ❤ Dalton (5:33 PM):** GoNNA NEED TO DO SUMTHIN NICE N CELLEBRATE  
**You (5:47 PM):** Imma tell every one this is so fucking cool!

 

—

 

 **Ruff Gays  
** _Zulie Washington created this group  
_ _You're friends with 10 people in this group_

SEP 29 AT 5:50 PM

 **You:** So me n craig are ~*viral*~  
**You:** [link]

SEP 29 AT 5:52 PM

 **Augusto:** [gif]  
**Austin:** [gif]  
**Andrew:** [gif]  
**Lyn:** HOW  
**Oluwa:** OMG  
**Federico:** Holy Shit Mccree! How did Craig manage that move??  
**Federico:** Where did u take the video do they just have car tracks out in San LUis  
**You:** He's been foolin around w the controls on the hi-gen and theres an old BMX track no one uses and. Like. We went for it? **  
****Oluwa:** O. MG.  
**Oluwa:** CARS SHOULDNT MOVE THAT WAY. I only ever saw Fufkcing bikes move like that  
**Zulie:** omg that cute kiss at the end when u run up to him, liek what a Look  
**Zulie:** Like ur so sweet together  
**Andrew:** [gif]  
**Lyn:** HOW YOU GO FROM MESSING WITH THE CONTROLS TO A GODDAMN STUNT LIKE THAT  
**Austin:** [gif]  
**Augusto:** [gif]  
**You:** Magic, lyn!!!!!

SEP 29 AT 6:24 PM

 **Jessica:** Holy sht mccrea criags getting so hyped up in the comments!!!!!  
**You:** Im famoous yall.  
**Lyn:** Dont forgeT US NOW THAT U BIG  
**You:** Sure thing ma'am lmao

 

—

 

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and

 

—

 

You have one new message.

New message: "Good afternoon, Jesse. It's Mx Cardona again. I just wanted to let you know that the option to transfer your enrollment is on the table. I think I figured it out so that even if Blanqui—I mean, your father. Mr McCree. You can transfer even if Mr McCree doesn't sign anything while he's away. I know things have been hard, Jesse, but I want to remind you that even if you gave us hell, every one of us teachers at Hartford High is wishing you the best, and we just want to make sure that you are taken care of. I… This is a long message, sorry. Whatever happens, good luck in San Luis."

If you would like to replay this message, press—

[7]

You have no new messages.

 

—

 

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I just moved to town. I am looking for work and

 

—

 

_**Mon, 10/02/2045** _

**Zuzu (11:18 AM):** shit you tell blanquito??  
**You (11:39 AM):** Unless he back in town u know he don't care  
**Zuzu (11:49 AM):** :(((

 

—

 

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I am looking for work and

 

—

 

_**Mon, 10/02/2045** _

**You (7:08 PM):** Hey girlie!! Ur ma doesn't have a com so can you let her know that it looks like I'm staying in san luis a litle longer than I thought? You probably already know but I wanted to tell u direct  
**Nhung and Mai (7:17 PM):** U FINALLY WANT TO TALK#!!! JESSEEEEEE ITS BEEN FOREVER OF COURSE I FUNDUNCKING KNOOOOOOO  
**Nhung and Mai (7:18 PM):** U DIDN'T EVEN AAY GOODBYE TO ME  
**Nhung and Mai (7:18 PM):** I CANNOT BELIEVE U UR A D-WAD  
**You (7:19 PM):** Tell ur ma mai  
**Nhung and Mai (7:21 PM):** GOD YOUR SO MEAN TO MD :( :( :( >:(  
**You (7:23 PM):** Love you too, mai. I'll come by next time I'm in hartfrd  
**Nhung and Mai (7:25 PM):** U BETTER love u too ASHOLE

 

—

 

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I am looking for work and

 

—

 

 **Letty Blue (4:23 PM):** think about it. lookin out for u. just let me kno, ok?  
**You (draft):** Would I got to join your """"club""""

 

—

 

Hi my name is Jesse McCree and I am looking for work and

 

—

 

_**Wed, 10/04/2045** _

**Dizzy Transnero (2:22 PM):** i miss u :'(

 

—

 

 **To:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**From:** The Cheese Shop on Denver  <hello@dencheeseshop.com>  
**Date:** Fri, Oct 6, 2045 at 11:00 AM  
**Subject:** Re: Cashier Job

Thanks for your resume. I admit it's a little unusual for us to take on someone your age for school hrs. (The person who vacated the cashier position was a senior working for the summer. But now has classes, actually.)

But it was really nice talking to you, and I know you’re just looking for a break so! I am gong to give you a chance. Can you come in tomorrow @3?

We can talk hrs. -will

 **Shop with us again!  
** The Cheese Shop on Denver  
dencheeseshop.com  
[Logo]

\- hide quoted text -

On Thu, Oct 5, 2045 at 7:28 PM, "Jesse McCree" <jaymccree@person.al> wrote: 

> Hi Will, I'm the guy that came in today and thank you for saying you will try and look at my resume. I worked with food and grocery stores for a while and **I really like serving people** and making sure they get what ever they need. The people at Grahams _love_ me and they can say I am a good worker and will be a good worker for you . If you hire me I will work any shift and I don't even live far (I live in Victory) so if you need someone I can be there in no time. I can start work when you need me and what ever shifts you have will work. Thank you, J
> 
> [Attached: Jesse McCree Resume.doc]

 

—

 

 **To:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**From:** The Cheese Shop on Denver  <hello@dencheeseshop.com>  
Date: Sat, Oct 7, 2045 at 4:49 PM  
Subject: Re: Cashier Job

Here's a copy of your paperwork plus the homework I mentioned. See you tomorrow!! -will

\- show quoted text -

[Attached: JesseMcCreeHire.pdf]  
[Attached: WhatsThatSmell Cheese guide.doc]  
[Attached: Helpful adjectives to memorize 52.doc]  
[Attached: DenCheeseShop Employee Manual.pdf]

 

—

 

 **Ruff Gays  
** _Zulie Washington created this group_  
_You're friends with 10 people in this group_

OCT 8 AT 6:12 AM

 **You:** [Image]

OCT 8 AT 8:54 AM

 **Zuzu:** LOOK AT OUR BOY ALL GROWN IN HIS CUTE LIL UNIFORM

OCT 8 AT 9:33 AM

 **Andrew:** [Gif]  
**Augusto:** [Gif]

OCT 8 AT 9:36 AM

 **Austin:** [Gif]  
**Oluwa:** sneak me a GADDAMN BRIE AS BIG AS MY HEAD OR U AINT NO FRIEND OF MINE

OCT 8 AT 10:01 AM

 **Santiago:** Cute apron, Jesse!

 

—

 

 **To:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**From:** The Cheese Shop on Denver <hello@dencheeseshop.com>  
**Date:** Fri, Oct 13, 2045 at 1:07 PM  
**Subject:** Pay Stub

 

—

 

 **To:** Jesse McCree  <jaymccree@person.al>  
**From:** The Cheese Shop on Denver <hello@dencheeseshop.com>  
**Date:** Fri, Oct 20, 2045 at 1:14 PM  
**Subject:**

 

—

 

_**Sun, 10/22/2045** _

**Dizzy Transnero (3:11 PM):** jaybird how u doing?

 

—

 

 **To:** Jesse McCree <jaymccree@person.al>  
**From:** The Cheese Shop  

 

—

 

**To:**

 

—

 

_**Sun, 11/05/2045** _

**Dizzy Transnero (3:07 PM):** when u coming home, jess?  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **summary:** despite jesse and ortega warning their friend group that jesse left for good, the crew is shocked the first day of hartford high when jesse isnt in. they blow up his com with texts and messages to their "Ruff Gays" chat. a concerned teacher calls jesse and tells him he should enroll at san luis high. jesse ignores the calls. at ortega's insistence that jesse keep himself busy, jesse applies for a few jobs and considers the job offered by "letty blue." he eventually gets a job at a cheese shop. weeks go by, as noted by the pay stubs that come in. mentioned in passing are that jesse feels isolated from his friends back home; that one friend (dizzy) is particularly broken up about jesse leaving; that weeks after he left he finally tells nhung and her daughter mai that he's gone for good; and that jesse and craig have a video that went viral, of craig doing stunts in his car. this chapter’s timeline spans from august 28 to november 5, 2045.


	12. hightailing — part v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary of chapter provided in endnotes for those who would prefer not to read txtspk.

**_Tue, 11/07/2045_**  
   
**You (10:49 PM):** It's weird, right??  
**Ortega (10:49 PM):** Yeah…… so u sure that u dont kno the dude??????  
**You (10:50 PM):** I'm telling u.  
**You (10:52 PM):** Look at the first PM: "Hey saw your post in the #HoverTricksNM feed. Super cool what that blond guy (you?) did with that Hi-Gen! (Its a '39 right? A '38?) Really looking to meet up with people to talk about organizing a tournament. Think BMX meets hovers! I'm based in Dallas but was thinking of heading to ur area to visit family at the end of Nov. We can talk then? Hmu if you're interested! - Shawn"  
**Ortega (10:53 PM):** Well that sounds actually legit tho  
**Ortega (10:54 PM):** N from what u were sayin it sounds like he just wanna meet some ppl interested in hover stunts??  
**You (10:56 PM):** Idk. He just too enthusiasic about it. Pushy when craig didny respond  
**You(10:56 PM):** *when craig didnt respond right away just he got busy with deliveries  
**You (10:57 PM):** Him and Shawn been chatting nonstop since tho. Craig says im stupid and paranoid  
**You(10:58 PM):** Which is fair I guess  
**Ortega (11:00 PM):** Wha????? He said that bout u? :\\\  
**You (11:04 PM):** He was just kidding, Oretga.  
**You (11:04 PM):** *Ortega  
**Ortega (11:04 PM):** Dude but srs.  
**You (11:04 PM):** I am being srs. He was just playing  
**Ortega (11:05 PM):** :\\\  
**Ortega (11:08 PM):** so C still making all those little jokes?? After u two had that big fight?  
**You (11:15 PM):** Ortega dont be an asshole wtf  
**You (11:17 PM):** That was about the food thing. He stopped making comments about me eating or not so Im happy. This is nothing  
**Ortega (11:18 PM):** OMG STILL SAYIN SHIT THEN??????? My guy you need to fix that shit  
**You (11:19 PM):** There's nothing to fix  
**You (11:21 PM):** We are fucking Good okay.  
**Ortega (11:21 PM):** It's kinda not okay tho. I kno u aint been in a Real relationship befor and ppl always got something annoying about them OF COURSE but…… idkk? its kinda weird that he got so many comments for how u handle ur businss?  
**You (11:22 PM):** I aimnot gonna talk about it more w u  
**You (11:22 PM):** *am not  
**You (11:23 PM):** I didn't tell u so u would b an ass about it. He jokes. I like that he's funny  
**Ortega (11:25 PM):** There's a diff btwn jokes and """"jokes"""  
**Ortega (11:25 PM):** Im just lookin out for u  
**You (11:25 PM):** As is every one I get it!!!!  
**Ortega (11:25 PM):** :\  
**Ortega (11:25 PM):** what u saying  
**Ortega (11:26 PM):** every one who  
**You (11:36 PM):** EVERYONE. e.v.er.y.o.n.e. You and the crew. Dizzy hates I'm here so she always sending shit about how ppl miss me and rico is bugging lately bout how i ain't in school. Plus Babs hates Craig and won't let him into her trailer and so it's weird when I go over now. Also Babs caregivers gang up w her to try and convince me to start looking for my partnersoul like it would be soooo easy to. And my coworkers dont like Craig and I dnt think even craigs friends would like craig if he didn't give them so big a discount. And like  
**Ortega (11:37 PM):** holy shit wha set u off  
**Ortega (11:40 PM):** U ghosting me mccree  
**Ortega (11:48 PM):** aND EGGHEAD OF COURSE WE MISS U  
**Ortega (11:49 PM):** WE AINT GONNA LEAVE U BEHIND  
**You (11:56 PM):** Look I made it out of heart ford and I'm finally doing decent and yeah im with a dude whose making that happn for me but I got my own shit together too. I got a job and a plan and maybe Craig ain't my SO but he's srs about me and I am srs aboutbhim. I hate that every one js always busting busting my chops and telling me how to run my life. Now that I'm out EVERYOME got an opinion!! Wveryone pays ttentjon to the 1% he goes too far but forget about the 99% boring ass happy shit innbetween. News flash I can be mean and nasty too we all can be. But ueah C got jokes but then again everyone got somethung to say. Where was anyone when I only fuckimng had school lunch mystery meat to eat fir a damn smester cuz my bike got stolen n i needed to replace it?? And I.--WELL JESSICA MAYBE ITS BETTER TO BE LEFT BEHIND IF IT MEANS PPL WILL STOP GUILT TRIPPING ME. Like I'm trying to Finally do right by me n everyone is looking to tear me down for it and im TIRED of all this bbackseat-living my life.  
**Ortega (11:56 PM):** Craig can be a hard guy to like longterm.. He says a lot of stupid shit. I mean I'm friends w the dude n I kno that, u kno that and  
   
   
**_Wed, 11/08/2045_**  
   
**Ortega (12:01 AM):** wow wtf  
**Ortega (12:05 AM):** Pick up the call McCrea  
**Ortega (12:14 AM):** OK u gonna b a WUSS ABOUT THIS so hold up. 1) u kno exactly where i was when ur bike was jacked. I was w all us fuvkers spending EVERY DAY W UR ASS who DIDN'T KNO U WASN'T EATING CUZ U NEVER TOLD US SHIT  
**Ortega (12:16 AM):** We stopped hustling n scheming after red rck becuz of *U**. So it ain't like u can b mad at us that u had no credits  
**Ortega (12:17 AM):** aside that, tho. we all poor as dirt except like,, oluwa n Andrew but we woulda feed u if u had the balls to ask  
**Ortega (12:17 AM):** URG that wasnt right to say  
**Ortega (12:19 AM):** but u kno what i mean. We kno things are bad but u never tell us when things r worse. It is difficult being ur friend McCree only cuz u make it difficult by keepin shit inside  
**Ortega (12:19 AM):** Also dont pretend that the second when we found out we didnt get u ur firstl ll legit job  
**Ortega (12:20 AM):** 2) lol also like, what. u a big man on ur own huh? That what u think huh? U think just cuz ure getting some dick u grown?? BOY U STILL 15. 16 soon but dont play like u aint the baby of the group and we dont have a right to be worried  
**Ortega (12:22 AM):** 3)) ur man has some weird ass jokes and yeahh me n zuzu laughed with u about it at first but idk,  
**Ortega (12:22 AM):** maybe im thinkin now u should stand u ground a little??  
**Ortega (12:27 AM):** 4) u a fukin delicate punkass snowflake so Imma forgive u in a min cuz theres only one reason u will pull this shit n thats cuz ur fucking father.. i dont kno how the Fuck blanquito got ur # cuz that man never remmbr it,,and i kno he aint back yet or else i would have known the sec that fuck crossed into hardford. but that dknt matter rn because u gonna tell me  
**Ortega (12:28 AM):** what the fuck he say to u  
**Ortega (12:33 AM):** txt or call ur gonna answwr. I kno ur ass aint fuckin asleep  
**You (12:35 AM):** It's so stupid  
**You (12:35 AM):** He didn't say nothin  
**Ortega (12:35 AM):** you're not stupid jesse  
**You (12:36 AM):** No youre right immmmmm a wuss  
**Ortega (12:37 AM):** God sry shouldn't have said that eother  
**Ortega (12:37 AM):** I know thats a like #trigger for u and i fukin did it any way im sry  
**Ortega (12:39 AM):** ur not a wuss Jay  
**You (12:40 AM):** "Heard you in San Luis now?"  
"yes"  
"doing okay?"  
"yeah"  
"with some boy?"  
"yes"  
" your SO?"  
"maybe"  
"good good" silence  
"Ur head ok?"  
"Yeah" likee a solid minute of silence then "well i just wanted to see how you doing. gonna call the girl again, see if she's with nhung. see u around kid"  
"see u"  
**Ortega (12:41 AM):** God ok fuck ur dad blaquitos a fcking shithead  
**Ortega (12:44 AM):** imma be real here with you mccree i kno ur crying n no one wants a witness when u running snot and tears all over ur face but when i call in a min u pick up ya dig  
**Ortega (12:44 AM):** tell me thats ok  
**You (12:49 AM):** K  
**Ortega (3:07 AM):** Thx for picking up. Luv u jaybird  
**You (3:08 AM):** <3

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **summary:** ortega and jesse are texting late, november 7, 2025. they are talking about how a fan of hover stunts named shawn messaged craig after his video went viral. jesse is suspicious of shawn, but craig is enthusiastic about meeting up with shawn for a regional hover tournament and craig calls jesse stupid and paranoid. ortega becomes protective over jesse, and jesse becomes defensive as his friend criticizes his boyfriend. jesse snaps, and expresses his displeasure that no one likes craig and that everyone tries to run his life. ortega breaks down jesse's argument but ultimately puts jesse's anger aside, guessing that his reaction is not about ortega or even craig, but about blanquito. she's right. jesse ultimately reveals he and his father had a very bland conversation. ortega tells jesse to pick up her call in what the reader can guess is an attempt to comfort him. he picks up, and when jesse says goodnight via a texted heart at 3:08 AM, two hours later, the reader can assume ortega was successful in talking him through.


	13. hightailing — part vi

**_Wed, 11/08/2045_**  
   
**Ortega (3:10 AM):** Also dude sry to break up the touchey feeley moment but b4 i forget, ur birthday is in like two weeks. Man I guess you kinda slipped off our radar there for a mo. Sry jay. What we gonna do for u?  
**You (3:14 AM):** Idk. Ill ask Craig in the mornin  
**Ortega (3:14 AM):** Cool

 

—

 

After his call with Ortega (and, if he ain't fooling himself: after the call with his pa), things are… Things aren't bad per se.

 

—

 

**_Fri, 11/10/2045_**  
   
**Ortega (9:21 PM):** ?  
**Ortega (9:25 PM):** How u doin jay? & got news about ur party??

 

—

 

Things just… slip a little.

 

—

 

**_Sun, 11/12/2045_**  
   
**Ortega (4:04 PM):**  Still need news about the party. Evn knoing if its gonna b in heartford or san Luis will help

 

—

 

Maybe things have been slipping right by Jesse for a while now. Jesse's days tend to blur into an endless stream of Den Cheese shifts, fights with Craig, work, drinks with his coworkers, Babs visits, fights with Craig, fucking Craig, work, drinks with Craig's friends, fights with Craig, work, fights, work, fucks, work, fights. Time shouldn't pass in a bored haze interrupted by yelling matches that shimmer into the night. And there's other things that are off, too. Smaller things. Like when Jesse checks over his messages on a whim, he realizes that he is never the last one to reply to a text thread: he's left a half-dozen messages completely unanswered from various people, messages that he never remembered even coming in. He sees the long thread of _I miss you_ s from Dizzy, and how at first he replied to every one with reassurances, but now the chat is all call and no response. He even muted the group chat, sick of the endless updates for a life he ain't living.   
   
That can't be correct, right?

 

—

 

**_Wed, 11/15/2045_**  
   
**Ortega** (5:59 PM): Im tryin g to give u space mcree n be respectful becuz i kno ur in a bad way rn but I need some answers. Ur bday is comin up fast n we need to set shit up  
**Ortega (6:00 PM):** I kno Rico's been hopin to throw u something big to make up for not having a goodbye party  
**Ortega (6:05 PM):** Do we got to have a call again? I m down for a call wehnever

 

—

 

Notifications build up in his inbox, from Ortega and the rest of the gang.  
   
Jesse doesn't answer them. Instead, he rereads his fight with Ortega at his every free moment: at work, around the trailer, at Babs', at the trick lot. Jesse can't let it go, like he's forgetting the chorus for a song he's heard a million times. He stares at the thread, and tries to catch the lyrics he's missing.   
   
After hours of review, Jesse only finds that he's tired.

 

—

 

**_Fri, 11/17/2045_**  
   
**Ortega (1:39 AM):** ur fuckin bf still has all of us blocked since when you moved so we can't nag him. Just give us a sign ur breathing like I get if you wanna do some thing lowkey for ur bday or nothing but a sign? Jesse a sign would be real fking nice rn that ur reading  
**Ortega (1:46 AM):** like I don't even care about the bday anymore even tho its IN FOUR DAYS

 

—

 

He's tired, alright. Real tired. Tired of Craig's shit.  
   
Jesse tries to drop the Shawn thing. Tries to after Ortega said she didn't see nothing wrong with his PMs. But Craig won't shut up about the man and Jesse can't help his temper as shares his doubts about the stranger.

Craig tells him he's jealous of Shawn. Stupid. Who did Jesse think Craig was? Craig's got taste. Sure, they've both stalked Shawn's instagram. Both saw the wide-shouldered, square-jawed gym rat with easy confidence and a constant grin. He's sporty, judging by the Chivas merch he's got in every photo, and attractive. Much older than them—even has a kid. But still. Attractive. Craig can admit someone's attractive without wanting to screw them. Craig's a decent fucking boyfriend. Which of them changed up his entire routine for months to take the ride to Hartford and then remixed his life again when the other's looney tunes father up and left? Who made room in his own goddamn home to accommodate the other, huh? Craig is a downright patient sonofabitch. Unappreciated, too, if Jesse can't see that Craig doesn't get with every hot spic he meets—yeah yeah okay fine. Craig doesn't get with every hot _Mexican_ he meets (is that better, Jesse? PC enough for your delicate ears?), and fuck. Jesse. Jesse must be even more of an idiot than he looks like for pulling this crap. Why can't Jesse just pull himself together to see a great opportunity when it drops into their laps?  
   
And… and maybe Jesse is jealous. He don't feel it much—he trusts Craig in so much as to know the man is too lazy to find time to fill another well when one's pumping fine—but maybe he is. On a level Jesse ain't smart enough to read.  
   
But… something ain't right.  
   
It can't be right. He knows how to read a situation. Feels in his bones when things aren't lining up right and has seen what happens when he ignores those impulses. (His heart stops, and there is the memory again… Red Rock and its _swing, a crack of wood, then red… red, red…_ )  
   
But every suspicion Jesse lines up for his boyfriend, Craig wiggles out of it.  
   
Isn't it weird he's so much older? Talent doesn't have an age, baby.  
   
Why was Shawn so invested in this one video from a guy states away? It was fucking awesome video.  
   
Why doesn't Shawn have any videos of him doing tricks? Craig sells to a dude who's stuck-up boss fired him, said she didn't want that level of recklessness on his staff: maybe Shawn's management is like that.  
   
How does Shawn know so much about Craig's Hi-Gen make and model, when he doesn't have one in any of his recent photos? Jesse said it himself: recent photos. Shawn used to own one just like Craig's, and the man knows his way around a hover.  
   
Why hasn't there been any buzz about a meetup? Shawn's keeping it on the down low, worried about narcs.

 

—

 

(Why can't things ever be easy for Jesse? Maybe, Jesse… maybe Jesse ain't used to peace and just gets his nuts off making things so fucking difficult for himself. Maybe that's why.)

 

—

 

**Ortega (1:39 AM):** Like i aint enuf of a bitch to call ur work but Dizzy is and so dont make us the bad guys if we call

 

 ** _Sat, 11/18/2045_**  
   
**Ortega (3:07 PM):** O kay dizzy aint really gonna call ur work, we wouldn't do that to u but like last straw I m not goin to keep texting you like this ,jay

 

—

 

They are fighting, again.  
   
The skin at Jesse's elbow is warm and tender, tingling in a way that suggests that he's gonna bruise. He sees Craig reach out again but Jesse cannot maneuver around Craig's pinches without making a scene—or any more of a scene than they already are—as two greasy boys hissing at each other as they weave around the other shoppers.  
   
Craig squeezes his thick fingers around Jesse's jacket, but the fabric does nothing to lessen the pinch's strength.  
   
It hurts.

 

—

 

**Ortega (3:09 PM):** you need to make the next move man

 

—

 

It hurts more when Jesse jabs this same elbow into Craig's arm, hard and unabashedly frustrated.  
   
"You're sucha brat," Craig whines.  
   
"And you're a shithead. What's new."  
   
They continue to tussle down the chip aisle until Craig stops, grabs a bag of Tostitos and a thing of salsa. Mild, the kind that tastes of watered down tomato sauce. The kind Jesse asked him not to buy a dozen times already.  
   
Craig gives him a look as it goes into the cart, and Jesse's blood beats so hard that once again (once a-fucking-gain, because god it's happened so many times so many hours spent on repeat again and again for months) Jesse can barely hear over his heartbeat thumping at his ear drums. Jesse hates that salsa and Craig knows it and Jesse wants to rip the salsa out of the cart. Wants to throw it, smash it in Craig's face, watch him bleed around the glass. Wants to let Craig buy it so Jesse can sneak a piss in it and close it back up and watch Craig as he realize what's Jesse done and—

And…

God.

This. This is ridiculous.  
   
Jesse can't shove glass into Craig's face.  
   
Jesse isn't the kind of guy to get petty over _mild salsa_.  
   
In the middle of Aisle 5, on an exhausted Saturday afternoon three days before his birthday, with a boyfriend he can't stand no more and an inbox full of messages he's avoiding for no good reason he can name, Jesse starts to laugh.  
   
It's a high sound, sharp like a tire blowout. A pressure release. Hot air just… letting go. 

 

—

 

**Ortega (3:12 PM):**  Whats it guna be? What u going to do

 

—

 

Jesse doesn't need to be here, pissed off in front of rows of Doritos and Lays. Jesse doesn't have to put up with Craig. None of his friends even like Craig. Yeah, he's happy to not be in his father's house, happy to have had a lot of fun with Craig, happy to be more in control of his life than he ever was in Hartford. Everything he told Ortega just two weeks ago about Craig is still true. But maybe she's right also. Maybe Craig ain't doing right by Jesse. Jesse has been slipping. Maybe this ain't for the best.  
   
Because he's not unhappy, but he's not _not unhappy_ either. He's man enough to admit that morsel of truth to himself. He should also be man enough to know better than to throw tantrums in public, but that there is exactly what he's jonesing to do. Like a goddamn baby.   
   
He ain't… this.  
   
"What's so funny?" Craig sneers but its effect falls flat with Craig's obvious confusion over Jesse's deviation from their cats-and-dogs script.  
   
Jesse holds his hands to his stomach, breathless and pained as his diaphragm struggles remembering how to laugh again.  
   
Craig's mouth slackens. He looks stupid. He's so stupid. "What?"

"Nothing," Jesse says. "I'll tell you later."  
 


	14. hightailing — part vii

They move on from the salsa without further comment about their fight or Jesse's revelation, but like the cat that caught the canary, a twisted grin keeps on Craig's face as they pick up milk, checkout with Jesse's EBT chip, and load the Hi-Gen with their small bounty. That smugness should ignite Jesse again, but instead he nods his head slowly along to the radio stream.

There's a feeling in his throat that pushes him to keep time with every crick of his neck. It's got the same tightness as the heat that beaded sweat at his brow five long months ago, when he sped his bike home from Nhung's to pack his bags.

Jesse wants to spit out that feeling. Wants to spit it out alongside every cuss he's ever heard.

But also he wants to talk it through with Craig and fix this.

But also Jesse wants to not fix anything, nothing at all.

Jesse also wants to scream.

He wants to turn to Craig and yell at him, "Buddy, this ain't working out." He wants to tell Craig, "I love you," wants to ask, "How can you stand being with someone you fight with so much," wants to ask himself the same question, wants to hiss, "You like me only 'cause I'm brown," and wants to beg, wants to cry, and wants to say against Craig's thick neck: "I wish my name was stamped on your wrist because then I'd stay like my mamá stayed because she wanted what I want—the same thing: I just want something sure for once in my goddamn life and for fucksake, Craig, why ain't this dragon your dragon? Why ain't you mine?"

He wants to know who's his.

He wants a mark that's a name instead of a stupidly big and intrusive design, and he wants to not wear gloves all the time, and he wants to be sure he ain't gonna be with no literal dragon. Jesse wants so much. He wants to kiss Craig and he wants to punch Craig and he wants to punch his pa and he wants to cook the perfect chilies rellenos. He wants to call Ortega right there on his way to Victory Park, sitting next to Craig, and wants ask her to come pick him up and bring him back to Hartford and also she should tell Rico Jesse's going back to school and he's going to be good and he'll fucking learn to live at the McCree lot again and he'll make two-serving-size meals knowing he'll end up heating the second half for himself when he pa doesn't show and, please, Ortega, just get him out he can't be this way no more just—just let him have peace why can't it ever be easy why—

"Birthday's Tuesday," is what Jesse settles on saying. "Reckon it's polite to swing by Hartford and say hello."

"Sure. Had the day clear, in case your impulsive ass pulled something like this." Craig's voice is light. It's a joke.

(It ain't a joke.)

"Cool."

(Were they ever jokes?)

 

—

 

_**Sat, 11/18/2045** _

**You (3:36 PM):** Sorry for going AWOL. Coming by Tues nite. Maybe 7. Talk then? Just me and you tho.....  
**Dizzy Transnero (3:37 PM):** of course of course, jess god i Missed u. everyones so worried bout u but jessica said to just leave u alone so i listened to her  
**Dizzy Transnero (3:37 PM):** is this a srs convo? are u sure u dont want jessica too  
**You (3:38 PM):** Yes to srious. No to Ortega  
**You (3:38 PM):** *serious  
**Dizzy Transnero (3:38 PM):** okay w/e u say. ur birthday(!)  
**Dizzy Transnero (3:38 PM):** got work wed??  
**You (3:38 PM):** No  
**Dizzy Transnero (3:39 PM):** ok. pack an overnight ill drive u home. easier than dealing w C if we take awhile. ill tell lyn to clear out the house for the nite so itll just be us 2  
**Dizzy Transnero (4:51 PM):** love u jaybird  
**You (4:51 PM):** Love you too Diz

 

—

 

He promised that he'll eventually tell Craig what's going on in his mind, but _later_ , as it turns out, is not that night. _Later_ isn't Sunday or Monday or anytime during his birthday morning fuck or the drive over to Hartford on Tuesday. Jesse needs the ride, he tells himself. He wants to talk with Dizzy first, before making the big jump. Can't exactly go nuclear on his relationship when his ass needs transport.

He tries to convince himself he ain't making excuses. He ain't as successful as he's hoping to be.

 

—

 

It's a rite of passage for every Hartford kid hitting puberty to come to understand there ain't many places to hang out in town.

Sure there's a movie theater, a few playgrounds, the bakery on Westcott, the diner, the hardware store parking lot, the abandoned Orlesky plot some kids converted into a party venue seven years ago as a senior prank that no one ever thought to deconstruct… Decent enough joints, for sure, but nothing to gloat about.

As such, when Craig finally drops Jesse off, kisses him, and speeds off in the opposite direction of San Luis off to do god knows what, it's at the town sign. The sign's more extravagant than Hartford warrants: instead of a little stage set-up like most towns in the area got, Hartford promotes itself with a large concrete and steel monstrosity with hedges and flowering vegetation maintained by the luck of god and the little old lady who lives on Eliot and Foster. Underneath the huge town name, _NuTerra™: Building New Tomorrows_ spans the width of the monument in sprawling script.

It's not a spot Jesse would ever pick himself: too out-of-the-way, too theatrical. But when he sees Dizzy on a bench, legs tucked under her, eyes sad as she watches him stroll up, he knows Dizzy done chose right, as she always does. He can't imagine having this talk of theirs over burgers at the diner or over a joint at Orlesky's.

"Jess," Dizzy says when he stops in front of her, her voice as soft as cornsilk.

For all his planning over the last few days, Jesse didn't give a single thought to this moment. Like, he's got all his pros and cons listed for whether he should stay with Craig, but he didn't think a wink about greeting Dizzy. He should've, in retrospect, 'cause then he might've been prepared for the burst of glee edged with sorrow that overcomes him. For six years since he's met the Cisnero girls, the longest he's not seen Dizzy was four weeks, when back in '42 her and Lyn's parents saved up enough money and vacation time to visit their family in El Salvador. Jesse was happy for them; who wouldn't be? And it's not like no one from their crew went on vacation, even long ones. But the Cisneros were poor like he was poor, even with their firework side hustle. He counted on them to be around and sometimes not join in to do shit 'cause the money was tight. Those fours weeks dragged on for an eternity, and he'd shed a tear or two once he got Dizzy and Lyn wrapped up in his arms again.

Now, it's been five months.

_Five_ months.

How's it already been five months?

Jesse crashes into Dizzy's arms this time, which she opens just in time to catch him. His squat forces his knees into a weird angle, but he ain't moving out of Dizzy's hug for nothing. In her arms, he feels good in the way he barely recalls beyond fragments of his San Luis life. Good, like when he makes himself one of them Den Cheese's grilled cheese melts—the signature, with prosciutto and emmenthal and a slow cooked egg basking between fresh bread slices provided from the bakery two stores over. Good, like when he finally brought his sim accuracy up to a score he can be proud about again. Good, like when Babs and him puzzle out a particularly difficult clue. Good, like cold water on a hot day. Good.

Jesse clings to that goodness, that happiness. He's laughing but then, he's laughing too hard. His hands grasp harder. Too tight.

It was so easy to forget what this felt like, to move away and to not bother looking back after awhile. He never thought about himself as someone who can do that. He was always the loyal one, the one who stayed, the one who everyone said would have his first and last breath in Hartford. It was so damn easy to move on…

An exhale catches the wrong way, and there really ain't that much a jump to move from joy to something far more brittle, far more desperate until he's sobbing, ugly and loud and embarrassed and wet.

  
—

  
"I'm not Jessica," Dizzy offers, eventually, after Jesse's said his piece.

Jesse doesn't respond. His face is in his hands.

"I think too much for my own good. I plan everything, and I think too hard, and I don't like to push. God, it took me how many goddamn months to start HRT even knowing I wanted it? Wanting and doing has always been two different things for me. So for months I've been telling you I miss you and been asking you to visit, but I never once seriously told you to move back. You made your bed and I'll trust you to keep there if the mattress is working for you. If you wanted people to make your decisions for you, Jessica Ortega's your girl, not me. We both know what she'll say. 'Dump him. Come back home. We'll figure it out.' She'll strong arm you into it, even if you don't fight her on it. She'll fuck up Craig's face if he pecks a word trying to convince you to stay."

Dizzy runs her hands over his hair, his neck, his shoulders in soothing strokes.

"I'm not Jessica." Dizzy shrugs. "Jesse. Jess, I ain't living your life. I can't make your decisions for you. I refuse to. I respect you too much to do that to you. But… you know that, right? That's why you called me and not her." Jesse begins to protest but Dizzy steamrolls ahead. "I ain't offended. We all are different things for each other. When I want fashion advice, I call Zulie. When I wanna talk football, I hang with Oluwa's boys. When I need to bust in a gross cishet's face, I call you. And when you need someone to tell you things ain't got to be the way they are, not if you don't want them to be, but also someone to not tell you what to do, you call me. Es cool.

"But, like, listen to me. I ain't gonna tell you you got to leave him. If you want to make it work with him, it'll take a lot of effort and it sounds like maybe you'll fail but maybe you can push through. I don't know Craig like you do, and I don't know Craig-and-you like you do. …Oh, and yeah, I can fucking feel by how your body just went all tense that _part_ of you wants that so bad. You wanna stay with him no matter that he is kinda a shithead, and it must hurt you something deep to get permission from someone to do what _part_ of you wants. Part. Only a part. There's another part of you that probably wants me to be Jessica for you, wants me to tell you want to do. Part of you that regrets texting me instead of her.

"That's cool too. I don't judge you. But in the end of the day, Jess, you gotta do right by yourself."

Dizzy draws him close with a shoulder hug that makes all the air leave Jesse's body in an aching mix of relief and anxiety.

"Can you make a choice? Will you?"

Jesse wants to say yes, yes he can of course, but he doesn't say anything at all.

 

—

 

Later, after he sneaks into Dizzy's room through the window so her family doesn't bother him, when he's curled up next to her in bed, Jesse presses a kiss to her nose.

"Love you."

"Love you too." She smiles, eyes still sad. "Happy birthday, jaybird."

Oh yeah. It's his birthday.

"Thanks."

In a sleepy haze he finds himself thankful Dizzy didn't think to get him a birthday cake, because he has no idea what he wants enough to spend his one wish on. He cuddles up closer to his friend instead of deciding, grateful for a night spent in relative peace.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> excuse me while i fill jesse's life with gay girls who love him lots and are looking out for him, albeit in very different ways. hope you like dizzy, although this might be a hard conversation to swallow since we all want to be the jessica ortega in jesse's life, telling him what to do and what's in his best interest. but i think when you feel like you got no agency in a tough situation, having someone remind that you do have the power to make decisions (even ones that in the long term might be bad for you) means a lot.


	15. hightailing — part iix

There was a number of ways that morning could've gone down.

Like,

> Dizzy and him wake up fuck early to get Jesse to Victory while leaving her time to make it back to at least second period.
> 
> Their exhaustion reads in the bags under their eyes and in the way they don't say anything for the last hour of the ride. Dizzy's especially out of it: lord knows that girl loves her sleep. Not as much as she hates missing class, but still. If her mark comes in as _The Casper© Mattress_ , no one'll be particularly surprised.
> 
> Jesse owes Dizzy for the trip, especially since she grumbled for a minute about Jesse just staying in her room until after school. But Jesse couldn't risk her mom or dad or (even worse) Lyn stumbling across him and fussing. Guilt gnaws at him for imposing on his friend after he cried up on her shoulder last night, but guilt's easier to deal with than the achingly saccharine attention the Cisnero's lay into him when they think they can get away with it. It's okay, though. He can owe Dizzy. (She'll never seek to reclaim the favor, but Jesse'll think of something, for sure.)
> 
> Jesse hugs Dizzy his goodbye as dusk approaches, soaking in the familiar smell of her coconut conditioner and body lotion. He holds on too tight and for too long, but she gives him several long, quiet moments broken only by the sound of waking birds. Eventually, she sighs, kisses his cheek, and moves to step out of the embrace.
> 
> A tremor runs through his body, and he can't make his arms let go.
> 
> "Jess, babe, I need to—"
> 
> Tears burst in Jesse's eyes. "Dizzy," he chokes out. "Diz, Diz… Dizzy… I can't. Please."
> 
> Dizzy—bless her—keeps within the hug, but her voice grows stern. Focused. It's exactly what he needs. "What're you saying?"
> 
> Words spill from him, urgent and confused: "Please, Dizzy, I need… I need to pack and leave. Don't leave me here. I… I can't. Please. I don't see his Hi-Gen so… we have time. Before he comes. Diz. I need—"
> 
> "Okay." Dizzy's going to be late. She doesn't say that, only, "Okay, Jesse. I'm proud of you for making your choice. Let's do this."
> 
> He leaves a note, telling Craig he's bailed and if Craig knows what's good for him, he won't come looking for Jesse because Jesse's played bookkeeper long enough to bring his ass down. Then he texts Babs, saying not to expect him for visits. Texts Will from Den Cheese, apologizing that he can't give two weeks but Will should know Jesse ain't picking up no more shifts. And then, he leaves with Dizzy and imposes on the Cisnero's and calls Mx Cardona to find out how to get back into school and picks up shifts again at the diner and… and…

or,

> Jesse hugs Dizzy his goodbye as dusk approaches, soaking in the familiar smell of her coconut conditioner and body lotion. He holds on too tight and for too long. Eventually, she sighs, kisses his cheek, and moves to step out of the embrace.
> 
> A tremor runs through his body, but he makes his arms let go.
> 
> Dizzy gives him one more kiss.
> 
> She drives off.
> 
> The sight of Dizzy's dad's hover disappearing around a corner makes Jesse feel lightheaded. Almost, well, dizzy. So Jesse goes inside and lies down on the bed.
> 
> He curls up on the sheets and breathes in the faint scent of his birthday sex lingering. Yesterday morning seems like an eternity ago, adding a weird nostalgia to the memory of Craig's smile against his mouth as they kissed, and to the memory of sweat and laughing and the buzz of getting off mixing with the high of his wake-up blunt. He's got a hickey on his thigh, fresh and bright and the physical proof he needs to remind himself that it was bitten into him just under twenty-four hours prior.
> 
> It's a good memory. He has a lot of good memories in this bed. In this trailer. In Victory Park, in San Luis, in Craig's Hi-Gen, in anywhere as long as it's by Craig's side.
> 
> Craig hasn't always been good with Jesse, but he ain't always bad either. Lately it's just been so messy because of the Shawn thing, which highlights all in one place all the ways that Craig irritates Jesse. But everyone's got their problems, right? Maybe Jesse is blowing everything up out of proportion like he always does. It's like he said to Ortega. Everyone always focused on the 1% Craig goes too far but they forget about the 99% boring ass happy shit in between. Jesse and Craig really are, for the most part, happy and boring. Jesse just ain't appreciative of what he has.
> 
> Jesse wants to appreciate what he's got; wants to not break everything he touches for once in his life and so he doesn't want to break up the decent thing he has with Craig. Instead he soaks up the sense-memory of Craig's body against his, and just… settles and…

or,

> The sight of Dizzy's dad's hover disappearing around a corner makes Jesse feel lightheaded. Almost, well, dizzy. So Jesse sits down on the steps up into the trailer and stays there awhile. He watches as early morning colors Victory with a yellow wash. No trees disrupt the crawling light as it pours over this section of the park: a tornado yanked them all up a decade ago, and folks never replanted them, figuring that space could be put to better use with more trailers. The lack of shade during summertime was hell to sweat through, but now, with autumn on him, Jesse marvels at the breadth of the sky above him.
> 
> He never really appreciated it before. Couldn't appreciate it, if he's honest with himself. Been a long while since he's been up early, and seeing the sunrise for the first time in months startles him with how much it's like a painting, it's that pretty.
> 
> He used to be a morning person.
> 
> He used to smoke pot as a treat with friends, not as part of his wake-up routine.
> 
> He used to do a lot of things.
> 
> He used to _be_ a lot of things. Like a good friend. Like a decent student. Like a fun and casual tease. Like a son that at least tried to be decent, even if Jesse never quite made it to being a good kid.
> 
> He misses being those things, the things that made him _him_.
> 
> He wants to be those things again.
> 
> He needs to be himself again.
> 
> He picks up his com.
> 
> Dizzy answers immediately. "Jesse? What's wrong?"
> 
> "I know you're mostly back to Hartford but, uh, can you come get me? I can't do this anymore."
> 
> "Okay." Dizzy's going to be late. She doesn't say that, only, "Okay, Jesse. I'm proud of you for making your choice. Let's do this."
> 
> Then Dizzy comes back and Jesse's already packed up. He texts Babs and Will. Leaves Craig a note. And then life goes on and on and…

or,

> He needs to be himself again.
> 
> He picks up his com.
> 
> Ortega answers just as the call goes to voicemail. "What you want, McCree?"
> 
> She's so angry. Jesse chokes. Hangs up.
> 
> Ortega calls him back, or tries to. He doesn't answer. She texts him, apologizing. He ignores her. She gets mad again. She doesn't text back.
> 
> He goes into the trailer, subdued and resigned and accepting and...

or,

> Ortega answers just as the call goes to voicemail. "What you want, McCree?"
> 
> She's so angry. Jesse chokes but doesn't hang up.
> 
> "You're right to be mad. I'm so sorry but…" Jesse sobs, and Ortega immediately starts shushing him in a clumsy but earnest attempt at offering comfort. Her awkwardness works. Jesse focuses on speaking straight as he begs, "Ortega, I don't know what to do. I _can't_ with Craig no more."
> 
> "Okay." Ortega has full right to call him out on expecting support after he's been sucha bad friend lately. She doesn't say that, only, "Okay, Jesse. It's easy, brother. You dump him. You come back home. We figure it out. Like we always been doing. Just me and you, Jessica and Jesse. Alright, kid?" Jesse nods, and even if she doesn't see it, Ortega must feel it. "You need me to pick you up?"
> 
> "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
> 
> And then Ortega picks him up and together they pack his bags and she reminds him to make his goodbyes. He texts Babs and Will. Leaves a note for Craig and then they head back to Hartford and then everything goes back to normal because everything is always the same and…

or,

> Ortega answers just as the call goes to voicemail. "What you want, McCree?"
> 
> She's so angry. Jesse chokes on all his words and just cries and cries and Ortega comes for him, never hanging up and she saves him and they just leave with no goodbyes and…

or,

> "What you want, McCree?"
> 
> She's so angry. Jesse chokes but doesn't hang up because suddenly he's screaming. "Fuck you, Jessica Ortega. Fuck you for introducing Craig to me and fuck you for being nosy when you ain't got no right to be and fuck you for knowing my every trigger and forgetting why it's _important to not fucking do those things_ and fuck you for every good thing in your life that I wish I had and fuck you for caring for me and fuck you for making me feel like I deserve more than I deserve and fuck you for being the one who got us into thieving and fuck you for guilting me when I wanted to stop and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you—"
> 
> Ortega hangs up pretty quickly and doesn't ever call back. Dizzy tries, but Jesse ignores her messages once again because he's a fucking asshole and everyone forgets that he can be just as mean as Craig and he just wants to be left alone, so alone, always alone…

or,

> "What you want, McCree?"
> 
> She's so angry. Jesse chokes but doesn't hang up because suddenly he's screaming but this time he ain't even saying anything he's just screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming and…

or,

> "What you want?"
> 
> "Oh, hi, pa. It's me."
> 
> "Jesse? What you bothering me for?"
> 
> "Just wanna see how you're doing."
> 
> "Busy."
> 
> "Ah okay. Uh, coming back soon?"
> 
> "Nah. Got some work in Vegas right now. Decent pay."
> 
> "That's good."
> 
> "Still in San Luis?"
> 
> "Yeah. For now, maybe."
> 
> "Well. Anything else, kid?"
> 
> "No, nothing."
> 
> "Alright then."
> 
> "Alright. I guess, bye?"
> 
> "Bye."
> 
> Blanquito hangs up first and that's that because that's how it always is between them and Jesse can't do anything to change it because he doesn't know how to and he feels sick because he always feels sick to his stomach even when he's had enough to eat and why did Jesse even bother to call because nothing was ever going to be different and he should know that and he's so pathetic and…

or,

> Jesse hugs Dizzy his goodbye as dusk approaches, soaking in the familiar smell of her coconut conditioner and body lotion. Eventually, she sighs, kisses his cheek, and moves to step out of the embrace.
> 
> A tremor runs through his body, but he makes his arms let go.
> 
> She drives off, and the sight of Dizzy's dad's hover disappearing around a corner makes Jesse feel lightheaded. Almost, well, dizzy. So Jesse goes inside and lies down on the bed. He curls up on the sheets and breathes in the faint scent of his birthday sex lingering.
> 
> It's gross. Disgust dispelling his sudden vertigo, he burns the sheets while they are still twisted on the bed and he just watches as the flames crawl up and down and around the tiny trailer. He doesn't move from his spot even as his skin sheers with the heat and smoke and…

or,

> Dizzy and him wake up fuck early to get Jesse to Victory while leaving her time to make it back to at least second period. Dizzy's pulling on jeans when Jesse stops her.
> 
> "I can't go back today. I can't."
> 
> "Okay. Okay, Jesse. You don't gotta."
> 
> "I don't know what I'm gonna do yet."
> 
> "That's okay." She hugs him, tight and unyielding, and Jesse presses his face into her neck, soaking in the familiar smell of her coconut conditioner and body lotion. It's gonna be okay. Whatever happens, it's gonna be okay. Hopefully. Maybe. Or else… or…

Maybe this shit is all too late. Like, maybe, it's gotta earlier. It's gotta be:

> They continue to tussle down the chip aisle until Craig stops, grabs a bag of Tostitos and a thing of salsa. Mild, the kind that tastes of watered down tomato sauce. The kind Jesse asked him not to buy a dozen times already. Craig gives him a look as it goes into the cart, and Jesse's blood beats so hard that Jesse can barely hear over his heartbeat thumping at his ear drums. Jesse hates that salsa and Craig knows it and Jesse won't stand for Craig's shit no more.
> 
> He can't.
> 
> When Jesse rips the salsa out of the cart and smashes it in Craig's face, Jesse doesn't have a plan beyond watching his fucker of a now-ex-boyfriend bleed around the glass. And it feels so good so good to see Craig crying and clutching at his face and god did some get in his eyes because that's…

or,

> _**Mon, 09/25/2045** _
> 
> **Craig ❤ Dalton (11:02 AM):** Track again. You in?  
>  **You (11:05 AM):** Eh not today. Kinda tired  
>  **Craig ❤ Dalton (11:06 AM):** Whattttt I wanted to try the u8twirl today tho!!! Whos gonna tape me  
>  **You (11:06 AM):** U really wore me out last nite. ;)) Good luck tho!  
>  **Craig ❤ Dalton (11:05 AM):** Eh
> 
> (And so one captures Craig's U8 so Craig can't post it to his instagram so no one can share the post on reddit so the video doesn't go viral so Shawn never sees the tape so Shawn never PMs Craig so Craig doesn't ever get obsessive about the dude so Jesse doesn't have to worry so they don't fight more than they usually do so Jesse never has to bother with meeting with Dizzy so Dizzy never tells him to make a decision so Jesse never has to know he's got a choice to make because Craig and him are just happy just so happy so so so so…)

or… or,

> "You planning on staying for dinner?"
> 
> Nhung must've measured the exact amount for a decent meal for Mai, Quyen, Susie, and (hopefully) herself. Another setting would throw off her game, but… god, it's been awhile since he's spent any time with this family-not-family of his. Jesse knows Nhung don't got much, and he hates to impose on the lady. But all he has waiting for him is a can of beans, toast, and an empty home.
> 
> The loneliness promised at the end of his bike ride overwhelms him, and it's the want for company that makes Jesse cough up, "Maybe… maybe just a spoonful, ma'am. To hold me over until I get home."
> 
> Nhung, sweetheart that she is, nods. Jesse stays and hangs with out Nhung and Quyen and Susie until Mai comes home, and then they all watch holos and Jesse keeps an eye on the kids as Nhung showers and it's late so he ends up squeezing into the futon with Mai for the night and things don't get better but Jesse doesn't think to leave and Craig makes his visits like he always does and sometimes Nhung calls Jesse over for dinner and sometimes Jesse offers to buy and make dinner for them all and Jesse isn't really family but…

or... fuck, you can't fix it there, gotta go all the way back, all the way, maybe then…

> When Craig approaches him in The Light Box lobby with a bag of popcorn ready, Jesse doesn't note his white as milk skin with nearing third-degree burns on his nose, shoulders, forearms, and neck. Doesn't note the thin eyebrows, or the bared unmarked wrists, the cute-silly ears that stick out like barn doors, the blue-green eyes, or the snug tee popping hem threads over thick arms.
> 
> All he's got eyes for is the tacky, red tattoo sleeve running up Craig's right arm. It's so cheesy Jesse wants to point and laugh at the inked dragon, which wields a machine gun and has flames and an American flag streaming down the length of its body.
> 
> It is such a bad tattoo that Jesse doesn't even think about his own dragon, the one hissing at his wrist. Craig is so far from being in the realm of his significant other that it doesn't occur to him to remember the words of advice his mamá left him, about loving fast and often to avoid the trap of only ever being with your partnersoul if they end up a dud.
> 
> Even if he did remember her holovids, Jesse wouldn't dare bet on Craig.
> 
> So Jesse stays his feet and politely declines the offered popcorn, making a bullshit half-truth that he's worried about how the butter will muck up his gloves. Ortega glares at him, knowing already that Jesse's blowing Craig off despite what he said in the parking lot, but fuck it if Jesse will choose to give this mess of a chance a chance.

That morning could've gone a lot of ways. Ways where things leading up to that day was different and/or Craig was at the trailer when Jesse shows up with Dizzy and/or Dizzy and Jesse gets into a car crash and dies and/or Craig gets into a car crash and dies and/or an atomic bomb blows them all to smithereens and/or Craig's not a blockhead and/or Craig never was born and/or Jesse ain't got his pa for a father and/or Josefina Luz de la Cruz McCree (née Puerta) ain't dead too young and/or nosy Mx Cardona is just a little nosier and gets a CYFD rep to scope out the McCree household so Jesse gets put into the system once they find Blanquito negligent and/or Jesse never was born and/or an infinite infinte other things that can happen.

In the end, Jesse can't concern himself with the infinites because there are two absolute bookends that matter, that everything true to possible builds off of:

> The first: Jesse, sixteen and wholely unsure of what the next year will bring, goes to bed curled up next to Dizzy on November 21.
> 
> The second: Craig shows up to Victory, black-eyed and bleeding and bruised, in a pickup that certainly ain't his Hi-Gen, at precisely 2:15 PM on November 22.

Jesse could have done a lot of things up until that moment, though he also could have been doing things different for awhile. But what matters is what happened, and how he actually gets to from point a to point b is a path of least resistance.

> Dizzy and Jesse wake up fuck early, and Dizzy drives him to San Luis. They hug goodbye, Dizzy smelling like coconut and Jesse smelling like nerves. The sight of the hover rounding the corner makes Jesse lightheaded as loss and regret and desperation creep up his spine. He sits on the steps that lead up into the trailer. As dusk crests over Victory he scrolls through number after number on his com, playing through conversations he ain't never going to have. Eventually, he goes inside. Lies down. Smells the birthday sex lingering on his bed. Grossed out, he puts the sheets to wash. Then he makes himself a sandwich. Sits down, eats, streams shows on his pad without really pay attention. Does the bed. Naps, lying on the freshly laundered sheets.

That's it. That's the big play. After all Dizzy and him talked about making choices, after all the yelling he did at Ortega about being his own man, Jesse does nothing for a few hours before going to sleep.

Jesse just thought he had time.

But then, at precisely 2:15 PM, Craig parks his newly acquired hover and bursts into the trailer.

The sound of the door slamming open is enough to wake Jesse, but what gets his wits together is Craig grabbing his tshirt and shaking him like a ragdoll.

"How you know?" Craig screams into Jesse's face. "How you know?"

"What the fuck you talking about?" Jesse screams right back. He scratches at the hand wrapped up in his shirt, desperate to escape the madness that is too sterling clear to be a nightmare.

"Shawn, you dipshit!"

Jesse is smaller than Craig, but he's strong enough to put up a decent defense even as his adrenaline lags over the grogginess of sleep. He knees Craig in the stomach, hitting something tender judging by the way Craig keels over, crowding over Jesse as he lays on the bed. Déjà vu strikes Jesse: how many times has Craig closed in on him on this bed, hand on his chest, kiss ready on his lips? This time, however, there's no promise of intimacy, no shining jewel of lust. Instead, the air sags tense and hot and furious between them.

"What?"

"Shawn!" A spittle of spit and blood flies from Craig's mouth and lands on Jesse's nose.

Wait. Blood? It's then that Jesse's panic spreads open enough to heighten his attention instead of starving it. Jesse notices the black eye, and the missing teeth (a canine and two of the little front bottom ones), and the blood (so much blood), and the greasy hair, and the dirt on every inch Jesse can see.

"Jesus, Craig, what happened to—"

"You knew, didn't you? You knew!"

Craig shakes Jesse again, and Jesse flinches from the wrath in Craig's eyes.

"I got no idea—"

"Shawn. It was Shawn's hover all along. You knew, didn't you? That's why you kept warning me, you fucking—"

Jesse blinks.

"You're an idiot," Jesse says slowly, the world puzzling itself together. Jesse knew from the second he saw its bumper stickers that the Hi-Gen was stolen, and part of him thought that was a bad idea how obvious that fact was. But Jesse never said anything about it because even as a thief himself, he never considered the possibility that the target would come back for it after so long.

This is priceless.

Amazing!

Absolutely goddamn mag-fucking-nificent.

Craig growls and releases Jesse. He stalks over to the kitchen, pulls out the roll of garbage bags, and throws them at Jesse as he sits up on the bed.

"I want you out."

It takes Jesse a moment to make sure he heard Craig right. He heard Craig right.

"What?"

"Gotta move on, sug." Craig swings open the compartment where Jesse stows his clothes, and he starts throwing shit at Jesse. Jesse's head is so turned around he doesn't move as his pants and shirts and jackets pile up in his lap. "Got some new wheels that're hot, and need to get outta dodge before the new owners decide to pull a Shawn. Done this a million times. Million and one, now, and I know better to bring dead weight for the ride. You're the dud, Jesse. You're just bad luck. Bad fucking luck and a nag too, because if you weren't always screaming shit I'd have read through Shawn's play, and I ain't dealing with you no more. I am trying here to be patient with you and not killing you like I should because we had a decent run. But no more. Get your shit and leave before I lose my goddamn control."

Craig is breaking up with him. _Craig_ is breaking up with _him_.

Incredulous at the timing and the coincidence and the way the world fucks you over when you wait too long to make a decision, Jesse laughs. At the sound, Craig looks ready to fight some more, but Jesse sees the out Craig has given him. He holds up a hand.

"Okay." Jesse has so much he wants to yell at Craig, so much he wants to call him out for, so much he wants to beg Craig for, so much he wants to cry about, so much he wants to nag about, so much with which he wants to plead the case for staying together. He doesn't say any of that, only, "Okay, Craig."

He opens up a garbage bag and starts packing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally! the end of jesse/bad guy craig, set to the tempo of what amounts to a curated tour through a choose your own adventure novel. s/o to [raepocalypse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Raepocalypse/pseuds/Raepocalypse) for naming shawn! they wanted to kick craig's ass since the first chapter he was introduced so i found a way for them to do so, if vicariously through shawn lol.


	16. hightailing — part ix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the thing with writing a wip (and esp writing a wip with my circular writing style) is that sometimes i really want to tie something up with an earlier section but i didnt leave myself a breadcrumb to follow up on. usually i can find a way around that, and other times i add in inconsequential little addition edits. this is the first chapter for which i had to make a notable edit to assist my flow, which you won't notice if you are reading through the entire fic after the edit. but in general, i want to just say for anyone reading this fic as a wip, i will always try to let y'all know if a big change was made and where you can find that.

Hartford was gonna be the answer.

All the NuTerra communities were. Not quite rural, not quite suburb. Minus the specialized workers like teachers and docs and plumbers and such, most everyone in the first wave of settlers got their own hyper-fertilized plot, with a stack of GMO seeds that the promos all promised were to thrive no matter how lazy the farmer.

It was to be the answer. The answer to the disaster that was the 20s. Farming yields were getting small thanks for climate fuckery. People were spreading all them whispers about some weirdness going on with those omniums. Oil spills. Doomsday cults. Drug-resistant superbugs. War. More war… A storm was a'brewing, and the NuTerra planners promised all would be fixed with their terraform solutions. It seemed too good to be true but it was true enough that people couldn't help but rush to fill the units.

Everyone had a reason to run to Hartford.

Jesse knows about his town's creation, not because of any pressing interest in history or out of town pride. Instead, his knowledge came from a steady osmosis drained from years of overheard complaints and wistful what-coulda-beens.

This town was always a disaster, they say.

This town could've been something had the Crisis not erupted.

Hartford is just like every other small town in the resource-poor mid-America dust bowl; we was fools to think it could be anything otherwise.

Hartford is special; we can save it still.

It was a scam.

It was an opportunity squandered to the dust of their own stupidity.

Twenty-one years Hartford been running. Twenty-one years they've maintained the promise set up by NuTerra Industrial—through the war drain—through the ineptitude of untrained farmers who had no business owning a plot—through deficient seeds yielding empty fields that bankrupted NuTerra after all the lawsuits—through the closing of Greene Distributions and with it the only major multi-county business left after NuTerra folded—through the Dusty Roadrunners sending their troops to remind residents some gang boss half a state away decided Hartford was under his territory. Twenty-one years they marched along to the cult of a failed dream. And for what? Nothing. Twenty-one years and people are finally starting to wake up and refuse the kool-aid, but they now must go accepting another grim reality. Because even at its worst, Hartford fared better than most everywhere else post-Crisis. The Crisis took a lot of things, but at least it didn't take their homes. It didn't take their lives or their hearts.

So they say.

For as long as Jesse can remember, nobody except a few like Oluwa's family has ever had enough to get by on more than the skin of their teeth. There's something about living in a manufactured town, one that sprung up overnight one day not too long ago but longer ago than Jesse's been alive. Something that makes folks settle for uncomfortable half-truths because it feels like everything's the same as it always was, even if two decades of "always was" is a barely spit's worth of years in the grand sea of time.

Hartford's gonna be Hartford, and Hartford's folks' gonna be Hartford's folks, and Hartford folks don't got a lot of options.

Jesse knows this. He also knows that he can't stay at Babs' forever.

It's been a treat sleeping squeezed into Babs' couch, cooking her meals fresh, helping her aides when they come by, going to work, and doing countless crosswords with her. Her health has been on a downswing again, and having someone 24/7 would help the woman through her tough patch. Jesse'd be happy to care for the lady. Hell, the week's been a nice fantasy of a life that Jesse wants so bad, wants straight down to his core. Thing is… The folks that see her on the day-to-day won't say a peep to nobody with power to cause problems, but Babs' caseworker is a right mighty bigoted sonuvabitch judging by the stinkeye Mr Howell gives Jesse and any aide not white as snow.

No doubt, if the agency let him, Howell would've disallowed him—the little brown stoner of a fagboy—from coming round for puzzle visits. One word that Jesse's holed up on Babs' couch, and the fucker'd come in the next day with Babs' assistance cut in half just to spite her kindness.

Jesse's got limited options, but he ain't about to fuck over somebody he cares just for the chance he'll get by a little better. It ain't in his constitution to do that, especially to the only white person in Victory besides Craig that gave Jesse the time of day. …Although, put that way, maybe Victory isn't even that good a place to set up now that he isn't tied there by Craig. Jesse's finally gotten the area used to his face, but that's been a struggle when he at least kept to hanging with the park's weed supplier. Babs is a kooky broad that don't got too many friends outside her aides. Jesse isn't gonna get any street cred on her behalf.

So no Babs, and probably no Victory—not that he could afford a joint on his own.

Because, after all, the Cheese Shop on Denver came as a blessing for Jesse for the past two months, keeping him busy with a few shifts here and there while also putting some change into his pocket.

But it ain't enough to pay for a room at the kind of place that won't fuck over an unaccompanied minor like Jesse, and Jesse can't make Den Cheese work for him the way he needs it to. Will worries about getting in trouble overworking an underage kid; it's okay for him to tend the shop while not being in school, but full-time is a step too far for even a flexible guy like Den Cheese's considerate but by-the-books owner. The only places looking for work are places he's already been rejected from.

Maybe that he's sixteen now will mean something to them, but Jesse ain't wasting his time embarrassing himself if he reapplies and gets the same no's he got the first time round.

So… no Babs, no Victory, and no getting by with just what he got going on now.

Hartford is looking to be, once again, the answer.

There he has the McCree lot, his friends, school, Nhung and her kids, work at the diner and Graham's and a few other joints, a life… He has a life there, ready to welcome him back.

But as he rings up pont l'eveque and fig jam for a customer, Jesse fights a pulse of nausea at that thought. Of the ease of going back home. Of the return of what was once normal but feels so… distant after so many months of independence. Of the image of running back to Hartford unemployed, dumped, outta school, and with his tail between his legs.

He can't… he can't… god he…

(God, why couldn't he work it out with Craig? Why was Craig such an asshole? Why…)

No. Stop. He can't throw up in front of this person.

Jesse swallows back his panic and pushes through the transaction. Waiting for the cred chip to process, Jesse and the customer exchange small talk ( _hope you enjoy the jam!_ and _thanks!_ and _hope to see you soon!_ and _sure will!_ ) that grates considering how hard he has to focus to keep his existential doom out of his voice.

Thankfully, Jesse has it barely together enough that he waits until they walk out the door before he smashes his head into the counter. Jesse tries to focus his breathing in a calm in and out and in and out against the faux marble, but uncertainty claws its way up his chest and sinks into his throat. He feels stupid and he's sucha wuss for not making a decision and god, why did he ever think Craig was a good idea? Why did he come out to San Luis, why didn't he make his case against Shawn stronger, why—

No. He can't keep spiraling.

Jesse's gotta do something. _Actually_ do something, not just think about it. Not just _panic right in the middle of his shift_ about it like a goddamn amateur.

He needs…

What he needs is…

Is…

Is…

 _Is_ …

Oh.

Jesse just needs a little shift in perspective.

 


	17. hightailing — part x

**_Tue, 11/28/2045_ **

**You (9:07 PM):** Offer still on the table?  
**Letty Blue (10:30 PM):** fuck yes  
**Letty Blue (10:30 PM):** welcome to deadlock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesse has finally made a decision! something to celebrate, right?! ...right? 


	18. cuando críe cuervos — part i

Jesse's mamá reminded him every time they watched a western. That even though it's just good taste to love the classics, don't let no white man's media make Jesse think that real cowboys were gringos. 

They were brown, she said between sips of a healthy pouring of whiskey. As brown as the rich saddle leather they rode on, they were, and as black as the delicate ironwork scorched beautiful into their canteens and they were honeysuckle and burnt ember and (here, she would hold up the back of her hand to Jesse, showing him the perfect auburn of her skin like and unlike his own, darker tone) once they ruled the west and, therefore, the world.

The poetry of her words hit Jesse more clearly than the politics of appropriated histories, histories he would only learn to understand years and years after she'd gone from him. In her verses he reckoned a truth to live by: that he too had power on this land. 

Granted, his power was by no means the effortless ease he saw in the old holopics of the de la Cruz ranch from Josie's childhood. They had money, the kind that fed not only the people, but their horses and cows and dogs and useless, laying shy chickens. No one ever went hungry at the de la Cruz's. In the pics, they never had an edge of strain pinched into their mouths, nor did they have the daze in the eyes Jesse once had when he skipped dinner for the eighth night in a row after the arcade decided to bump up the cost of sim booth rates without warning. Granted, there was still something haunting Josie, Jesse could recognize that now even if he couldn't as a kid—but she wasn't starving none. With money came a sort of comfort Jesse knew she lived with up until she met the man who burned his soul into her wrist. She ran away with Blanquito to Hartford to escape her demons but she ain't never knew the peace of easy access to resources again. 

Jesse's childhood wasn't Josie's childhood. It probably was closer to his pa's experience in el campo back in Guatemala, not that Jesse knew a lot about it: Blanquito never talked about himself, not to Jesse at least. Still, Jesse understood his mamá in a way he would never understand his pa. He understood what she meant by the power of place, of belonging. Understood it even on the rough growing fields of their Hartford lot. Understood it even in a world edging ever further into war. 

He knew he too had a power sunk into the depths of the dirt and clay and sand beneath his feet. He had a right to exist. A right to be more than a wuss: he could be strong. 

He knew—right until Josie pressed play.

Even with his mamá's disclaimer, Jesse secretly wished his cheeks burned pink against honey beige, so that Jesse could've gotten his heroic squint just right. And it wasn't for lack of trying. After whatever movie they'd been watching ended—when Josie passed out on the couch and before Blanquito came back from wherever he went wandering—Jesse would sneak into his parents' room and just… squint into their vanity mirror, practicing. He twitched his face, creased his forehead, pinched the corners of his eyes to try and build up the perfect crow's feet on his smooth face. Sometimes he imagined he was in a duel with the boy in the mirror: in a minute, they would turn, take three paces, turn again on heel, and shoot; it would be up to Jesse to intimidate the boy to surrender to avoid the loss of life… if he could _just_ get his squint right. 

Hours he'd spent there, trying and failing to look like his heroes and wishing desperately for impossible things. A lifetime later, Jesse is nineteen and he knows now it don't got nothing to do with the color of his skin, but he still ain't got the squint down.

It certainly ain't a heroic squint steadying his eyes as Jesse catches sight of the sonuvabitch he's spent the last few weeks tracking. It's a calculating stare. Cassidy Thompson: white guy, forty-three, 5'8", 300-something lbs. Got a nose long and bumpy like a pickle with a sour expression to match. Not rich, but comfortable enough for a suburb near Boise paid for by a mall job doing graveyard security shifts. Associated with The Wise Men of Reno just briefly a few years back but stayed just long enough to earn himself a trail of warrants he's been hiding from out here in Idaho. Oh, and he knocked up the on-and-off-again mistress of a buddy of one of Deadlock's most loyal buyers, and for that tenuous trail of associations, Cassidy Thompson's gotta die. 

Since he got instructions not to make it look like a hit, Jesse's spent most of the last two weeks setting up for this exact moment. He slinked around Cassidy's neighborhood, casing big houses with nice new hovers parked in front before sticking up the owners for their credit chips as they came home from work. Jesse's raised a bit of a panic, which he wanted, but it's taken effort to balance how much scrutiny he's been getting. Get enough attention to get a wanted poster out, but not enough to warrant a task force. Act like an amateur to not raise any flags back to a gang affiliation, but don't be clumsy enough to get caught. Be able to blend in, but always wear the same black beanie, giant sunglasses, handkerchief around the nose, striped button-up, backpack, and bleached jeans. 

But Jesse reaps the benefit of his work when he runs out from his hiding spot and calls out, "Hey!" 

Cassidy turns around from his hover. They are about five yards apart and it's very early morning, but he spots the gun and Jesse's outfit. Recognizes Jesse's outfit. Cassidy—jumpy fucking Cassidy—moves forward into a lunge with a yell. 

There ain't a staredown. There isn't elegance or a swell of suspenseful orchestral music or beautiful camerawork cutting between Jesse's eyes and Cassidy's. Jesse doesn't need to squint to aim and shoot, clocking Cassidy right in the heart, as he had planned even though it would be less suspicious to land a less lethal hit. But this will be quick, this will be over for Cassidy soon, this doesn't have to drag out it'll be over soon the red is everywhere and Cassidy's falling back into his car blood pouring from him and the sound of flesh against metal and sucking gruesome inhales and Jesse squeezes the trigger a few times hard and haphazard like he might've if he was an amateur panicking after shooting someone for the first time. Hits Cassidy in the gut twice, hits the car door, hits the window which shatters. 

Jesse moves quickly, knowing it may be early in the morning but his shots probably woke someone up. He doesn't have much time. He rushes to Cassidy's side. Ignores the struggling last breaths of a man about to pass out from blood loss—a man about to die—and Jesse finds his credit chip, careful not to get too much blood on his gloves. 

Then he runs. Runs his escape route he started laying out the second he decided this plan, stopping only to strip off his top layer of clothes, revealing a simple black t-shirt, shorts, and a second pair of gloves underneath. From his backpack he takes out a duffle bag and then stuffs everything into it and then he goes back to it: he runs and runs until he's far enough away that running is more suspicious than keeping an even pace. Only then does he stops running. He's got to look like he has reason to be walking these streets so early in the morning. So he breathes. He calms. He walks, eyes wide open and staring straight ahead, looking like he belonged even here in Cassidy's sweet little suburb. He did his job. This, at least, he can count as a success.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. _y'all_. it's been... awhile. so much has changed for me personally in the months since my last post, up to and including leaving a toxic job, being fucked over by the bullseye mchanzine as a contributor, being unemployed for months, finding a new job, starting therapy, gardening, starting the grad school application process, etc etc. and through it all, know that i missed you and this story dearly. i won't promise a strict, regular schedule, but know that i am still here and excited for this story. as you could already tell, this story is one that will take time to develop and time to finish. thanks for your patience!


	19. cuando críe cuervos — part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything about the two weeks after the hit is a long grueling tedious process.

Jesse stays in Boise another two weeks.

That first day, those first few hours after the hit, Jesse walks around like he ain't got a proverbial noose in his duffle. His sublet is only five miles northeast of Cassidy's but he adds another four taking every detour he can to not make his route a straight line.

He even stops by the nice coffee shop he's been a fast regular at. He jokes around with Bautista The Cute Thirty-Something Morning Shift Barista With _Nicholas_ On His Wrist. Bautista rolls his eyes at Jesse's profane humor as he makes Jesse's usual (white mocha, whole milk, extra whip). Jesse indulges himself today by not being shy as he glues his eyes to Bautista's gorgeous thighs as he preps the drink. Jesse wishes he had the balls to flirt seriously but he refrains as he always does because he remembers service jobs. He hadn't ever liked having to grin and bear an unwanted come on just to not upset a customer. He won't bother Bautista at his work, but today... just today he lets his eyes hunger as the desperation for a distraction—any fucking distraction—hits him cold and hard.

The white mocha is good as usual. And as usual, the heaviness of his indulgent drink makes him feel a weird mix of sated and clammy: he wants to pass out on the coffee shop's delicate stools and sleep off the lactose. Jesse's thrived off that middle ground of comfort and discomfort the last few weeks, but today, the mocha does little to calm his nerves, nor does it plug the roaring in his ears, nor does it settle the panic clawing up and up and up Jesse's throat. Maybe he shoulda gotten something simple to steady his stomach?

Ain't a big issue though. At the very least the walk and mocha keep him from his shitty sublet for a few hours longer. Jesse walks and walks and takes a moment to settle with his drink sweet enough to make his teeth hurt, and then wanders some more.

Eventually, as the afternoon tempers the high noon heat, the stink of adrenalin and sweat sours on his skin.

He's gotta go back. Gotta shower. He goes back.

Jesse ain't allowed to know anything about the original owner of the studio, including whether the dude was even in Deadlock or an allied network. Letty handled logistics for these one-off, long-term gigs, and she always arranged it so if something went wrong, every person has their asses covered with plausible deniability.

Whoever it was, though, they got shit taste: everything's all wicker and distressed wood painted white and accented with a trying-too-hard dusty orange. It's tasteful and prim and Jesse hates it here. Hates it more as he slinks through the apartment to the bathroom, gets into the tub, and strips. There's a garbage can he'd left there last night where he dumps everything—duffle, backpack, his disguise, his getaway outfit, shoes—everything minus the gun—and he pours bleach into the can. He cleans himself down with wet wipes, which join the rest of everything in the bleach. The chemical smell is heady like the burn of regret Jesse ~~refuses to~~ doesn't feel and like the sour taste on his tongue as white mocha threatens to come back up. For minutes he swallows around the thick creaminess lining the back of his throat and manages to finish washing without throwing up.

Jesse covers up the garbage can, planning to let the evidence sit until he is sure every bit of forensics has been destroyed.

 

—

 

(Jesse can't sleep.)

 

—

 

Day two, he goes back to Bautista, gets another white mocha, whole milk, extra whip. He walks. Goes to the library. Mindlessly scrolls through tabloid websites to catch up on celebrities he doesn't recognize or care about or really want to know about their latest partnersoul scandal. Midday he takes a bus across town, buys a newspaper, and searches for any news about Cassidy. He gets a small insert on the front page ("Suburb Stealer Strikes — With First Slay, Pg. 5"), but the article is regulated to half a page. They got a photo taken from Cassidy's security cam but as Jesse planned around, his disguise'll make an ID near impossible. Can't even confirm his skin tone, and that fact alone makes him go back to the sublet, sheer relief trembling him so much he's too sick to be in public. 

That night, he starts the process of filing down the interior of the gun barrel. Letty will handle proper disposal, but he needs to do enough in the meantime that if he is caught with the gun, they can't confirm it was the same weapon 100%. It's a long grueling tedious process.

Everything about the two weeks after the hit is a long grueling tedious process.

 

—

 

(He doesn't sleep. Won't more than two hours at a time. He wants to sleep but just… can't.)

 

—

 

Day three goes pretty much the same as day two, although the update on Cassidy and the "Suburb Stealer" is on page nine. Day four is like day three, although there's nothing more on Cassidy in the news and Jesse smokes through two cigars and a pack of brittle cigarettes that taste just as cheap as they are. Day five is like day four, and day six is only different from day five because Jesse starts to pull clothes from the bleach can to handwash, dry, and cut anything soft enough to be cut into tiny pieces he'll spend the next week throwing out in public trash bins around Boise. He calls Letty on this, the sixth night, keeping the conversation light and breezy and devoid of any details beyond that he's coming home in a week.

 

—

 

(Jesse can't sleep.)

 

—

 

Day seven: yessir it surely happens.

 

—

 

(Jesse still can't sleep.)

 

—

 

Day eight too.

 

—

 

(Jesse just doesn't sleep.)

 

—

 

Day nine and ten.

 

—

 

(Jesse can't sleep. He wants to sleep. Needs to.)

 

—

 

Day eleven, Bautista gives Jesse his number. Tells him to come by at the end of his shift. From what Jesse can piece together, Bautista got himself ghosted by his Tinder crush and is looking for an easy rebound to make himself feel wanted and sexy and able to pull. It must be a particular boost to pull someone as young as Jesse. He knows Jesse will be leaving soon—Jesse even reminds him—but Bautista insists, and Jesse shows up ten minutes before the end of the morning shift. 

The drive from the shop to Bautista's is quiet and stiff, but the tension melts as clothes drip off them and Bautista fucks Jesse with his powerful, gorgeous thighs rocketing every thrust. Throughout it all he even goes out of his way to make Jesse not feel used: whispering into Jesse's ear sweetness as silky as the drinks he's made him for the past month. It's a kind attempt, if unnecessary: ain't like Bautista ain't being used too. Jesse don't mind none cuz it's nice and fun until, near orgasm, they shift a little so most of what Jesse sees is pillow and sheets and Bautista's arm—Bautista's soulmark. _Nicholas_. Jesse stares at it. No last name, which sucks for Bautista but hopefully they can figure something out. Hopefully they are sexually compatible, too, because someone deserved to be fucked the rest of their life like this if Jesse couldn't but also maybe Nicholas and Bautista don't find each other, and Bautista's gonna just cycle through ghosting and rebounds and disappointment for the rest of his damn life. Not everything works out. Jesse being fucked silly wearing his sweaty gloves covering his stupid, fucked up mark is proof enough that shit ain't always fair. Nothing's easy nothing's perfect nothing quite goes as planned—well Jesse's plans usually turn out alright because he puts in the time like look at this whole fucking trip—it worked—it… fuck, did Cassidy have a mark? Jesse… Jesse never thought to find out. Maybe the chick he knocked up was his SO? Jesse doesn't know. Will never know: there's no reason to ask any of the Deadlock higher-ups now that Cassidy's out of the picture. Jesse didn't even _think_ to know. He just—

Christ, Jesse can't even _fuck_ in peace.

 

—

 

(Jesse can't sleep.)

 

—

 

Day twelve, Jesse skips his morning mocha and texts Bautista if Jesse should come by end of shift again. One last go before Jesse has to leave. Bautista agrees, and when Jesse rides him, he holds his hands resolutely to Bautista's wrists and kisses the man until he's too lightheaded to remember his own name.

 

—

 

(Jesse can't sleep.)

 

—

 

Day thirteen, Jesse needs to go home. He trashes everything left and he cleans the sublet like he ain't cleaned a space in forever… or at least, he hasn't cleaned like this since his last job. He needs to leave.

He leaves Boise behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this chapter exclusively listening to the red dead redemption soundtrack, which i might use as a writing tool for the deadlock arc because damn it really puts you in the mood to write some outlaw disassociating the fuck out his mind, y'know? also s/o to the wife steve who when tasked with basically _okay jesse's got his regular coffee order but he needs his disassociation coffee order_ came in with the clutch white mocha.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic will follow our favorite cowboy from the sweet age of delinquent misfit to late vigilantism. as such, i will spend a significant amount of time on jesse's backstory, especially his friendships with gabe and genji, before the mchanzo endgame. hopefully this is a draw and not a deterrent! while a lot of this fic's front end will be more gen than not, i promise to maintain a romcom-esque will they/won't they (be a goddamn lizard person holy shi—) vibe between the mark and jesse, at the very least.
> 
> ya can catch me at my [personal tumblr](http://faorism.tumblr.com) or my [fanwork one](http://faorismwork.tumblr.com). i post shop talk, headcanons, goofs, responses to readers, and any updates concerning this fic to my [#hot oil spit fic](https://faorism.tumblr.com/tagged/hot-oil-spit-fic) tag.


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